ARE YOU THINKING OF GETTING A DOG?
[A musing by Vikram Karve]
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death. [Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord].
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children. And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer. You'll both be happy you did.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
Showing posts with label aundh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aundh. Show all posts
Monday, September 03, 2007
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Quality Time
QUALITY TIME
(A fictional short “love” story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”
“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.
It’s a long distance marriage, and the ‘married bachelors’ have been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work). And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words: “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!)
“How was your day?” the husband asks.
“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.
“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says. “It’s killing, the work. Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”
It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived “quality” lovemaking with his wife, full of performance anxiety, each performing for the other’s gratification, and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.
“Yes, darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her potent cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly intoxicating cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.
“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Mesmerized, marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.
“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.
“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his wife, looking yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman on his bed.
“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together.” the wife says, snuggling against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her. Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.
“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.
“I love you, darling!” the wife says.
Their lovey-dovey conversation completed, both of them disconnect their cell-phones. And carry on with renewed zeal their passionate amorous activity presently in hand. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!
I’ve heard somewhere: ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder – for someone else’.
Married, yet bachelors! Forced distance and unnatural loneliness – for too long. It does take its toll, doesn’t it?
And what about the so-called much touted buzzword ‘Quality Time’?
There’s no doubt about it!
It’s Quality Time that sustains and nourishes long distance marriages.
Yes. Quality Time!
Quality Time – with someone else!
Dear Reader, do you agree? Or, don’t you?
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
(A fictional short “love” story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”
“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.
It’s a long distance marriage, and the ‘married bachelors’ have been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work). And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words: “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!)
“How was your day?” the husband asks.
“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.
“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says. “It’s killing, the work. Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”
It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived “quality” lovemaking with his wife, full of performance anxiety, each performing for the other’s gratification, and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.
“Yes, darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her potent cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly intoxicating cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.
“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Mesmerized, marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.
“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.
“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his wife, looking yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman on his bed.
“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together.” the wife says, snuggling against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her. Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.
“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.
“I love you, darling!” the wife says.
Their lovey-dovey conversation completed, both of them disconnect their cell-phones. And carry on with renewed zeal their passionate amorous activity presently in hand. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!
I’ve heard somewhere: ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder – for someone else’.
Married, yet bachelors! Forced distance and unnatural loneliness – for too long. It does take its toll, doesn’t it?
And what about the so-called much touted buzzword ‘Quality Time’?
There’s no doubt about it!
It’s Quality Time that sustains and nourishes long distance marriages.
Yes. Quality Time!
Quality Time – with someone else!
Dear Reader, do you agree? Or, don’t you?
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Monday, May 07, 2007
Lip Sympathy and Crocodile Tears
LIP SYMPATHY AND CROCODILE TEARS
[a short story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The doorbell rings. The woman called Manjula opens the door.
“We’ve come to fit the air-conditioner,” the man outside says.
“What? We haven’t ordered any AC,” the woman says and begins to close the door.
“Wait!” her husband’s voice says from behind the man. He’s come home early from work. He guides the man inside while his wife Manjula looks on in bewilderment.
“AC? You gone crazy? You just go and order an AC without even telling me?” Manjula asks her husband.
“Mother told me to get it. Smita and her family are coming,” the husband explains.
“Oh! So all this is for your darling sister and foreign husband, is it? When we ask for a cooler you crib, and for them it’s an AC!”
“He’s not a foreigner. He’s of Indian origin settled there.”
“So why does he need an AC?”
“Mother said they wouldn’t be able to stand the heat here, especially the kids.”
“Listen, Houston is much hotter and humid than here.”
“Maybe. But they are used to air conditioning.”
Please don’t argue with me – as it is the heat is driving me crazy!”
The bell rings again.
“It must be the commode,” her husband says and goes to open the door.
“Commode?”
“Yes. Western Style.”
“This is too much! I’ve seen her shitting in the open, in the fields near our village, when she was a kid. And now she’s an NRI and wants to defecate western style? Bloody snobs, I don’t know why they come here and try to show off. And you, the perfect dutiful Mamma’s boy – no guts of your own!”
“What’s the matter? Is everything ready?” she hears her mother-in-law’s stern voice from behind, so Manjula lowers her face and slips away into the kitchen.
“Her name is Manjula [sweet voiced] but she speaks so uncouthly,” her mother says sarcastically.
“Her name is Smita [cheerful] but have you ever seen her smiling or laughing – just carps and cribs all the time,” Manjula mutters to herself.
The NRI guests arrive from Houston, and the next few days are hell for Manjula, physically and mentally. She dies a thousand deaths in her heart seeing the favoritism of her mother-in-law towards her sister-in-law and her family and is unable to bear the patronizing attitude of her guests and the subservient groveling of her husband before his mother. And all the time Smita make sarcastic barbs at Manjula and her incompetence, offering lip sympathy and shedding crocodile tears at old woman’s ‘agony’. And Manjula’s dear husband remains silent, a mute spectator! Why can’t he stand up for her?
One evening, they’ve invited a large number of guests to dinner, and while Smita is reveling in the paeans of praise being showered by her mother and her cronies, Manjula slogs it out in the kitchen.
“See Smita’s house in Houston,” the old woman boasts, showing everyone a photo album [which all NRI’s invariably bring with them to impress us ‘natives’!]. “It’s got a swimming pool, and her children, they are so accomplished, and her husband…” she goes on and on till Manjula can’t take it any more and she interrupts rudely, “ Mummyji, if you like it so much here, why don’t you go and stay there with your darling daughter?”
“What?” her mother-in-law asks disbelievingly.
“I mean, Smita is your own darling daughter after all, and I am sure she will look after you much better than me, isn’t it? After all, they are so well-off, and caring and loving. I’m sure it’s better for you to go there and live in luxury like a Maharani rather than suffering it out here with us!” Manjula says instinctively, but seeing the fiery look in her mother-in-law’s eyes, she starts to tremble.
Time freezes. Manjula feels tremors of trepidation wondering what is going to happen next. She has gone too far this time.
There is silence. A grotesque silence! And suddenly Manjula hears her husband’s voice, “I think Manjula is right.”
“What are you saying?” Smita asks astonished.
“I am saying that Manjula is right. It would be much better is mother stayed with you at Houston for some time. You’ve also got to take some responsibility and look after her, isn’t it?” her husband says firmly to his mother, and then he turns towards Manjula and looks at her in a way she has never seen before.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
[a short story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The doorbell rings. The woman called Manjula opens the door.
“We’ve come to fit the air-conditioner,” the man outside says.
“What? We haven’t ordered any AC,” the woman says and begins to close the door.
“Wait!” her husband’s voice says from behind the man. He’s come home early from work. He guides the man inside while his wife Manjula looks on in bewilderment.
“AC? You gone crazy? You just go and order an AC without even telling me?” Manjula asks her husband.
“Mother told me to get it. Smita and her family are coming,” the husband explains.
“Oh! So all this is for your darling sister and foreign husband, is it? When we ask for a cooler you crib, and for them it’s an AC!”
“He’s not a foreigner. He’s of Indian origin settled there.”
“So why does he need an AC?”
“Mother said they wouldn’t be able to stand the heat here, especially the kids.”
“Listen, Houston is much hotter and humid than here.”
“Maybe. But they are used to air conditioning.”
Please don’t argue with me – as it is the heat is driving me crazy!”
The bell rings again.
“It must be the commode,” her husband says and goes to open the door.
“Commode?”
“Yes. Western Style.”
“This is too much! I’ve seen her shitting in the open, in the fields near our village, when she was a kid. And now she’s an NRI and wants to defecate western style? Bloody snobs, I don’t know why they come here and try to show off. And you, the perfect dutiful Mamma’s boy – no guts of your own!”
“What’s the matter? Is everything ready?” she hears her mother-in-law’s stern voice from behind, so Manjula lowers her face and slips away into the kitchen.
“Her name is Manjula [sweet voiced] but she speaks so uncouthly,” her mother says sarcastically.
“Her name is Smita [cheerful] but have you ever seen her smiling or laughing – just carps and cribs all the time,” Manjula mutters to herself.
The NRI guests arrive from Houston, and the next few days are hell for Manjula, physically and mentally. She dies a thousand deaths in her heart seeing the favoritism of her mother-in-law towards her sister-in-law and her family and is unable to bear the patronizing attitude of her guests and the subservient groveling of her husband before his mother. And all the time Smita make sarcastic barbs at Manjula and her incompetence, offering lip sympathy and shedding crocodile tears at old woman’s ‘agony’. And Manjula’s dear husband remains silent, a mute spectator! Why can’t he stand up for her?
One evening, they’ve invited a large number of guests to dinner, and while Smita is reveling in the paeans of praise being showered by her mother and her cronies, Manjula slogs it out in the kitchen.
“See Smita’s house in Houston,” the old woman boasts, showing everyone a photo album [which all NRI’s invariably bring with them to impress us ‘natives’!]. “It’s got a swimming pool, and her children, they are so accomplished, and her husband…” she goes on and on till Manjula can’t take it any more and she interrupts rudely, “ Mummyji, if you like it so much here, why don’t you go and stay there with your darling daughter?”
“What?” her mother-in-law asks disbelievingly.
“I mean, Smita is your own darling daughter after all, and I am sure she will look after you much better than me, isn’t it? After all, they are so well-off, and caring and loving. I’m sure it’s better for you to go there and live in luxury like a Maharani rather than suffering it out here with us!” Manjula says instinctively, but seeing the fiery look in her mother-in-law’s eyes, she starts to tremble.
Time freezes. Manjula feels tremors of trepidation wondering what is going to happen next. She has gone too far this time.
There is silence. A grotesque silence! And suddenly Manjula hears her husband’s voice, “I think Manjula is right.”
“What are you saying?” Smita asks astonished.
“I am saying that Manjula is right. It would be much better is mother stayed with you at Houston for some time. You’ve also got to take some responsibility and look after her, isn’t it?” her husband says firmly to his mother, and then he turns towards Manjula and looks at her in a way she has never seen before.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Rendezvous in Mumbai
RENDEZVOUS
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What do you do if a man looks at you with frank admiration in his eyes – in an insistent suggestive sort of way that is worth a thousand compliments?
Nothing! You do absolutely nothing. Because you are a thoroughly bored “happily” married thirty year old housewife sitting comfortably in your favorite rocking chair, browsing through Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care, at the Oxford Bookstore at Churchgate in Mumbai.
So you just look down, act as if you have not noticed, and try to read.
But you cannot read – the words just don’t focus in front of you. You think of the man, his lingering look, his eyes curiously languid, yet inviting – it’s the first time someone looked at you in such a flattering way for a long long time.
You feel a tinge of excitement. Maybe something is going to happen. Something exciting – dangerously exciting. At long last. Something that you have been secretly wanting to happen, and thought would never ever happen.
Or maybe it’s nothing. Just your imagination playing tricks. So just to check. Once. Only once. You quickly look up – a fleeting glance.
He is still looking at you – not furtively, but brazenly, almost unashamedly, with waves of yearning flowing out of his eyes. He looks a decisive, hot-blooded and masculine man with his smart beard and piercing eyes.
You feel a flush inside. A shiver. A tremor. A tremor of trepidation – mixed with excitement. You cannot define how you feel – but it feels good. He looks at you. You look back at him in return. He begins to smile. You quickly look down and bury yourself into the pages in front of you and pretend to read.
But it’s no use. You can sense his unseen eyes locked onto you, burning into you, traveling all over your body and lingering exactly where they shouldn’t – just like a laser beam.
And now, he knows that you know.
What do you do? Best is not to react – just accept the fact of being looked at – ignore him. Keep on pretending to read.
Oh no! That may be dangerous. He may get ideas. You never know these types. May think you are game. But are you? Or aren’t you?
Why not play on – have some fun. Flirt a bit. See what happens. A little excitement to liven up your boring life a bit. So you take a deep breath, brace yourself and start a dangerous game.
You look up from your book, pan your gaze slowly across the bookstore, looking at everything – the shelves of books, the people, the cha-bar, the sales counter - and finally, like a dog that has circled its bowl of food long enough, you look directly at him.
Eyes meet. His and yours. Yours and his. His appraising eyes look into yours. And then his eyes travel down and look at the book in your hands.
You spontaneously follow his gaze, and look down at the book in your hands – Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care – most inappropriate for what you have in mind. You quickly put it away into the rack, run your eyes across the shelf and pick up ‘The Art of Seduction’.
You turn the pages – nothing registers – so you look up at him almost seeking approbation.
He smiles – a wry canny smile – as if he knows something you don’t. And suddenly he gets up from the chair, keeps the magazine he is holding back in the rack and begins walking towards you.
Your heart stops – you want to disappear, but he is already standing in front of you.
“Good morning Anita,” he says. “I’m Sen. Dilip Sen.”
Anita? You are not Anita. Seems to be a case of mistaken identity – but you are curious, and in a playful mood, so you say, “Oh, Hello Mr. Sen. You are late.”
“Late? No,” he says looking at his watch, a confused look on his face. “The RV is correct - as planned.”
“RV?”
“Rendezvous.”
Now you are really curious. “Why don’t you pull that stool and sit,” you say.
“Not here. Let’s go to the cha-bar. We can talk in peace there,” he says.
“Okay,” You replace the book in its place in the shelf, get up and walk towards the cha-bar.
The cha-bar – the tea lounge – it’s the best thing about Oxford Bookstore. An ideal place to relax, browse, or have a quiet flirtatious chat over a cup of exquisite tea.
As you sip, savoring the fragrance and relishing the rich flavor of premium Darjeeling Tea, you feel a shiver of anticipation. It’s your first time. You wonder what’s going to happen next.
“Well done. Let’s recap,” he says pulling out a pocket diary.
Well done? Recap? You wonder what this is all about. The man seems to be crazy. But you keep your wits about, and to calm down you say to yourself, “Relax. Just keep quiet and go along.”
And to Mr. Sen, you say confidently, “Okay. Sure. Let’s recap.”
“Step 1,” he says looking into the diary in front of him, “you and I independently arrive at the previously agreed upon rendezvous. Your choice is excellent – this bookstore – easy to wait, observe and not be noticed. We just blended in. Much better cover than a railway station, park or restaurant. And the book you chose – Baby and Child Care - easily discernible – so aptly chosen. Perfect for your cover. Looked so natural in your hands.”
“Do I look pregnant?” you snap at him.
“Oh no. I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, taken aback, “ You look lovely. But the book – it suited your cover – as a bored housewife.”
Cover? What’s he talking. A bored housewife! That’s what you are, aren’t you? Husband busy working, kids at school, and you – bored to death with nothing to do.
“I’m not bored,” you tease him with your eyes. Flatter him by looking steadily at him without letting your eyes stray.
“Step 2 – making eye contact. We could be a bit more discreet next time, isn’t it?” he says smiling into your eyes.
Discreet? Next time? What’s going on? Who’s this guy?
“Step3 – the signal. Change of book. Okay. But ‘The Art of Seduction’?,” he looks perplexed, “try something more sober – in line with your cover…..”
He goes on and on but you aren’t listening. You just look at him. A man who looks like a man. Solid, strong, decisive but vulnerable. You fantasize. Your imagination begins to run wild. You feel his touch – he has put his hand in your arm. His touch is electric. A shiver of anticipation rises within you. Suddenly he is shaking you. You snap back to reality.
“Okay Anita. Let’s get on with the tradecraft,” he says, in an almost imperative tone.
“Tradecraft?”
“Yes. And make sure you don’t grow a tail.”
“Tail? “
“Yes,” he says, “ Be careful. Maybe you’ve already grown a tail – check it out and shake it off.”
“Grown a tail?” unknowingly you move your hand over your behind to check and instinctively shake your bottom.
“Not there!” he reprimands, in a voice a teacher uses to scold a careless student.
“Have you forgotten everything – counter surveillance protocol?”
“Countersurveillance protocol?” you ask credulous.
“Come on Anita. Snap out of it. Be alert. They told me you were a seasoned detective. Now get on with your mission.”
Detective? Mission? What’s he talking about?
Oh my God! Fear starts rising within you. It’s getting dangerous. This is for real - no longer fun. It’s time to run.
“Excuse me,” you say, quickly get up and start walking towards the exit. You sense he is following you. So the moment you get out of the bookstore, you deliberately avoid going to your car but walk in the opposite direction towards the Oval.
The Clock on Rajabai Tower is striking twelve – it’s noon.
You look back over your shoulder. Dilip Sen is following you. You break into a run, still looking back, and suddenly bang into someone. It’s Nalini – your gossipy neighbor.
“What happened?” Nalini asks, steadying you up.
“Nothing,” you say.
“Hey. Why did you abort?” Dilip Sen asks, catching up with you, his hand clutching your arm.
“Abort?” exclaims Nalini, her eyebrows arched, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
You look at Nalini. Then at Dilip Sen. And then at Nalini again.
Nalini’s roving eyes travel all over you, look meaningfully at Dilip Sen, for that significant moment her eyes focus on his hand holding yours, taking in everything, till her gaze settles down pointedly looking at where it shouldn’t.
Everything seems frozen. In grotesque silence.
And then, Nalini looks at you with envious awe. And you see something mischievously wicked in her large radiating eyes.
You know you are sunk. Truly sunk. You break out into laughter. That’s the only sane thing left to do. Life isn’t going to be boring any longer.
VIKRAM KARVE
copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What do you do if a man looks at you with frank admiration in his eyes – in an insistent suggestive sort of way that is worth a thousand compliments?
Nothing! You do absolutely nothing. Because you are a thoroughly bored “happily” married thirty year old housewife sitting comfortably in your favorite rocking chair, browsing through Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care, at the Oxford Bookstore at Churchgate in Mumbai.
So you just look down, act as if you have not noticed, and try to read.
But you cannot read – the words just don’t focus in front of you. You think of the man, his lingering look, his eyes curiously languid, yet inviting – it’s the first time someone looked at you in such a flattering way for a long long time.
You feel a tinge of excitement. Maybe something is going to happen. Something exciting – dangerously exciting. At long last. Something that you have been secretly wanting to happen, and thought would never ever happen.
Or maybe it’s nothing. Just your imagination playing tricks. So just to check. Once. Only once. You quickly look up – a fleeting glance.
He is still looking at you – not furtively, but brazenly, almost unashamedly, with waves of yearning flowing out of his eyes. He looks a decisive, hot-blooded and masculine man with his smart beard and piercing eyes.
You feel a flush inside. A shiver. A tremor. A tremor of trepidation – mixed with excitement. You cannot define how you feel – but it feels good. He looks at you. You look back at him in return. He begins to smile. You quickly look down and bury yourself into the pages in front of you and pretend to read.
But it’s no use. You can sense his unseen eyes locked onto you, burning into you, traveling all over your body and lingering exactly where they shouldn’t – just like a laser beam.
And now, he knows that you know.
What do you do? Best is not to react – just accept the fact of being looked at – ignore him. Keep on pretending to read.
Oh no! That may be dangerous. He may get ideas. You never know these types. May think you are game. But are you? Or aren’t you?
Why not play on – have some fun. Flirt a bit. See what happens. A little excitement to liven up your boring life a bit. So you take a deep breath, brace yourself and start a dangerous game.
You look up from your book, pan your gaze slowly across the bookstore, looking at everything – the shelves of books, the people, the cha-bar, the sales counter - and finally, like a dog that has circled its bowl of food long enough, you look directly at him.
Eyes meet. His and yours. Yours and his. His appraising eyes look into yours. And then his eyes travel down and look at the book in your hands.
You spontaneously follow his gaze, and look down at the book in your hands – Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care – most inappropriate for what you have in mind. You quickly put it away into the rack, run your eyes across the shelf and pick up ‘The Art of Seduction’.
You turn the pages – nothing registers – so you look up at him almost seeking approbation.
He smiles – a wry canny smile – as if he knows something you don’t. And suddenly he gets up from the chair, keeps the magazine he is holding back in the rack and begins walking towards you.
Your heart stops – you want to disappear, but he is already standing in front of you.
“Good morning Anita,” he says. “I’m Sen. Dilip Sen.”
Anita? You are not Anita. Seems to be a case of mistaken identity – but you are curious, and in a playful mood, so you say, “Oh, Hello Mr. Sen. You are late.”
“Late? No,” he says looking at his watch, a confused look on his face. “The RV is correct - as planned.”
“RV?”
“Rendezvous.”
Now you are really curious. “Why don’t you pull that stool and sit,” you say.
“Not here. Let’s go to the cha-bar. We can talk in peace there,” he says.
“Okay,” You replace the book in its place in the shelf, get up and walk towards the cha-bar.
The cha-bar – the tea lounge – it’s the best thing about Oxford Bookstore. An ideal place to relax, browse, or have a quiet flirtatious chat over a cup of exquisite tea.
As you sip, savoring the fragrance and relishing the rich flavor of premium Darjeeling Tea, you feel a shiver of anticipation. It’s your first time. You wonder what’s going to happen next.
“Well done. Let’s recap,” he says pulling out a pocket diary.
Well done? Recap? You wonder what this is all about. The man seems to be crazy. But you keep your wits about, and to calm down you say to yourself, “Relax. Just keep quiet and go along.”
And to Mr. Sen, you say confidently, “Okay. Sure. Let’s recap.”
“Step 1,” he says looking into the diary in front of him, “you and I independently arrive at the previously agreed upon rendezvous. Your choice is excellent – this bookstore – easy to wait, observe and not be noticed. We just blended in. Much better cover than a railway station, park or restaurant. And the book you chose – Baby and Child Care - easily discernible – so aptly chosen. Perfect for your cover. Looked so natural in your hands.”
“Do I look pregnant?” you snap at him.
“Oh no. I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, taken aback, “ You look lovely. But the book – it suited your cover – as a bored housewife.”
Cover? What’s he talking. A bored housewife! That’s what you are, aren’t you? Husband busy working, kids at school, and you – bored to death with nothing to do.
“I’m not bored,” you tease him with your eyes. Flatter him by looking steadily at him without letting your eyes stray.
“Step 2 – making eye contact. We could be a bit more discreet next time, isn’t it?” he says smiling into your eyes.
Discreet? Next time? What’s going on? Who’s this guy?
“Step3 – the signal. Change of book. Okay. But ‘The Art of Seduction’?,” he looks perplexed, “try something more sober – in line with your cover…..”
He goes on and on but you aren’t listening. You just look at him. A man who looks like a man. Solid, strong, decisive but vulnerable. You fantasize. Your imagination begins to run wild. You feel his touch – he has put his hand in your arm. His touch is electric. A shiver of anticipation rises within you. Suddenly he is shaking you. You snap back to reality.
“Okay Anita. Let’s get on with the tradecraft,” he says, in an almost imperative tone.
“Tradecraft?”
“Yes. And make sure you don’t grow a tail.”
“Tail? “
“Yes,” he says, “ Be careful. Maybe you’ve already grown a tail – check it out and shake it off.”
“Grown a tail?” unknowingly you move your hand over your behind to check and instinctively shake your bottom.
“Not there!” he reprimands, in a voice a teacher uses to scold a careless student.
“Have you forgotten everything – counter surveillance protocol?”
“Countersurveillance protocol?” you ask credulous.
“Come on Anita. Snap out of it. Be alert. They told me you were a seasoned detective. Now get on with your mission.”
Detective? Mission? What’s he talking about?
Oh my God! Fear starts rising within you. It’s getting dangerous. This is for real - no longer fun. It’s time to run.
“Excuse me,” you say, quickly get up and start walking towards the exit. You sense he is following you. So the moment you get out of the bookstore, you deliberately avoid going to your car but walk in the opposite direction towards the Oval.
The Clock on Rajabai Tower is striking twelve – it’s noon.
You look back over your shoulder. Dilip Sen is following you. You break into a run, still looking back, and suddenly bang into someone. It’s Nalini – your gossipy neighbor.
“What happened?” Nalini asks, steadying you up.
“Nothing,” you say.
“Hey. Why did you abort?” Dilip Sen asks, catching up with you, his hand clutching your arm.
“Abort?” exclaims Nalini, her eyebrows arched, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
You look at Nalini. Then at Dilip Sen. And then at Nalini again.
Nalini’s roving eyes travel all over you, look meaningfully at Dilip Sen, for that significant moment her eyes focus on his hand holding yours, taking in everything, till her gaze settles down pointedly looking at where it shouldn’t.
Everything seems frozen. In grotesque silence.
And then, Nalini looks at you with envious awe. And you see something mischievously wicked in her large radiating eyes.
You know you are sunk. Truly sunk. You break out into laughter. That’s the only sane thing left to do. Life isn’t going to be boring any longer.
VIKRAM KARVE
copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Friday, April 20, 2007
Pune - Travel or Travail
TRAVELLING IN PUNE
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The best way to travel in Pune is to go nowhere. Just sit at home, watch the travel channel on cable TV, travel in your mind’s eye and enjoy yourself vicariously. That is if you are lucky to have electricity, and if there is no power supply due to load shedding or a routine maintenance shutdown you can do even more exciting things like meditation, playing patience, or doing nothing [doing nothing makes time pass slowly and prolongs life]. And if you are a workaholic just stay put at your workplace.
Sorry for digressing – this piece is about traveling in Pune. The roads are dug up, there are diversions, and there is traffic chaos, so think twice before taking out your car, especially during peak hours. A friend of mine started off towards my place near Aundh yesterday morning, got stuck in a massive traffic jam, tried to take a short cut, and got lost in the maze, like in the Bhool-Bhulaiya of Lucknow. I had to drive cross-country across the Range Hills, traversing unknown paths, taking adventurous short cuts, to reach the airport.
If you’re dying for a drive, head for the nearest highway – it’s easier to get to Mumbai from Hinjewadi than to get to Kharadi, Kalyaninagar, Hadapsar, or Wanowrie. And if you are lucky enough to live in the heart of the city or camp, just take out your parasol, put on your walking shoes and walk. Walk, don’t drive, is the motto of the day in Pune. But if you have made the blunder of shifting to the suburbs, it’s best to go nowhere, and languish away.
When I was a small boy [in the 1960’s], we used to cycle all over Pune – but I dare not try it today, lest I land up in a Hospital with my bones broken or worse still in Vaikunth or Kailas crushed to pulp. There is just no place for the poor cyclist in the murderous traffic and what’s left of the roads. And if you have a motorcycle, or scooter, and have the guts to negotiate through the chaotic traffic, best of luck! Otherwise try the PMT bus, or take an auto-rickshaw and tell me all about it!
There are just too many people traveling all over Pune. I don’t know why they don’t build living accommodation for employees in the workplace – that should reduce at least half the traffic traveling to work and back, besides enhancing productivity. Just imagine traveling from, say, your home in Kalyaninagar, Kondhwa or Hadapsar all the way to Hinjewadi and back every day. What a waste to time, fuel, and emotional energy!
I’m fortunate – I just have to walk down to my workplace which is just a stone’s throw away! But I live far far away from the heart of Pune, and though I often pine to go there, I dread traveling to town, and try to follow my dictum – The best way to travel in Pune is to go nowhere!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://karve.wordpress.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The best way to travel in Pune is to go nowhere. Just sit at home, watch the travel channel on cable TV, travel in your mind’s eye and enjoy yourself vicariously. That is if you are lucky to have electricity, and if there is no power supply due to load shedding or a routine maintenance shutdown you can do even more exciting things like meditation, playing patience, or doing nothing [doing nothing makes time pass slowly and prolongs life]. And if you are a workaholic just stay put at your workplace.
Sorry for digressing – this piece is about traveling in Pune. The roads are dug up, there are diversions, and there is traffic chaos, so think twice before taking out your car, especially during peak hours. A friend of mine started off towards my place near Aundh yesterday morning, got stuck in a massive traffic jam, tried to take a short cut, and got lost in the maze, like in the Bhool-Bhulaiya of Lucknow. I had to drive cross-country across the Range Hills, traversing unknown paths, taking adventurous short cuts, to reach the airport.
If you’re dying for a drive, head for the nearest highway – it’s easier to get to Mumbai from Hinjewadi than to get to Kharadi, Kalyaninagar, Hadapsar, or Wanowrie. And if you are lucky enough to live in the heart of the city or camp, just take out your parasol, put on your walking shoes and walk. Walk, don’t drive, is the motto of the day in Pune. But if you have made the blunder of shifting to the suburbs, it’s best to go nowhere, and languish away.
When I was a small boy [in the 1960’s], we used to cycle all over Pune – but I dare not try it today, lest I land up in a Hospital with my bones broken or worse still in Vaikunth or Kailas crushed to pulp. There is just no place for the poor cyclist in the murderous traffic and what’s left of the roads. And if you have a motorcycle, or scooter, and have the guts to negotiate through the chaotic traffic, best of luck! Otherwise try the PMT bus, or take an auto-rickshaw and tell me all about it!
There are just too many people traveling all over Pune. I don’t know why they don’t build living accommodation for employees in the workplace – that should reduce at least half the traffic traveling to work and back, besides enhancing productivity. Just imagine traveling from, say, your home in Kalyaninagar, Kondhwa or Hadapsar all the way to Hinjewadi and back every day. What a waste to time, fuel, and emotional energy!
I’m fortunate – I just have to walk down to my workplace which is just a stone’s throw away! But I live far far away from the heart of Pune, and though I often pine to go there, I dread traveling to town, and try to follow my dictum – The best way to travel in Pune is to go nowhere!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://karve.wordpress.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
FOOTLOOSE IN PUNE
by
VIKRAM KARVE
What is ‘loafing’?
Idling away one’s time on useless things?
Aimless loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn’t it? Okay let’s say it’s aimless wandering. Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner! Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing. Spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
That’s what I did a few days back. I loafed. I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – Loafing. Let me tell you about it.
It’s a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife’s piercing voice, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know?” I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask, “What time are you coming back?” for she knows I will again truthfully answer, “I don’t know.”
“Take the mobile with you,” she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. If you want to truly enjoy life – beware of the technology trap!
It’s a bright day. I feel good. Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure.
Should I turn left? Should I turn right? I was free. Free to go wherever I desired. Free. To enjoy my day as I wanted. True freedom. To travel with no destination to reach. No task to complete. No deadlines to meet. Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner.
I see a bus, stop it and hop in.
“Where do you want to go?” the conductor asks.
“Where does this bus go?” I ask.
“Pune Railway Station.”
“Okay. One Pune Railway Station,” I say holding out a tenner.
The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin. I sit down, think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window. On these trips of mine I prefer traveling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot. Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums!
That’s what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes. Go where life leads you. Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune – near Shaniwar Wada. In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and Delhi it’s even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you wouldn’t dream of going to otherwise.
The PCMT bus reaches the Railway Station. It’s a smooth ride. (PCMT buses seem to be better than PMT buses!).
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds – I love the atmosphere. On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention.
“Want a seat?” a porter asks.
“No,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he pursues.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Waiting for someone,” he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage.
“No,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection. I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody. So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite.
If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You’ll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you. Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around. This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days Pune was called Poona.
Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. It’s thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling. I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about it’s business outside. People come, gulp their lassis in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savor each and every drop of the delicious lassi.
I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone – “Landmark” – what’s that? A swanky new music-cum-book store. I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and salesboys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings. I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity. Had I been a “successful” person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon. Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility.
I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music – like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid out and looks impressive. The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side. I start from the left. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing – there are books on every topic you can think of. The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my heart’s content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I’m totally immersed into doing something I love.
By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it’s almost three in the afternoon, I’m hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons. I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani – the signature dish of Dorabjee.
As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants – the menu is select – just a few choice dishes a single page. There’s Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savor the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavorsome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it.
The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants. At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardor. And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda. So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda. And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake.
I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books! And then just walk down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I’m tired and hungry. Maybe I’ll have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs. Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street. Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manney’s. The possibilities are endless!
Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby. Maybe I’ll jump into the first bus I see and go wherever it goes. How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town? Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park? Or maybe I’ll just head home. The possibilities are endless! I am free to do whatever I choose to do! Loaf to my heart’s content! To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
You can take my word for it, dear reader. There is nothing you’ll enjoy more than loafing. It is when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time. The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward. Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards? What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived?
If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it. There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it. The feast of life is before you. Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you’ll redeem the art of living from the business of living.
The Art of Traveling and The Art of Loafing – inextricably intertwined, aren’t they?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
What is ‘loafing’?
Idling away one’s time on useless things?
Aimless loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn’t it? Okay let’s say it’s aimless wandering. Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner! Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing. Spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
That’s what I did a few days back. I loafed. I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – Loafing. Let me tell you about it.
It’s a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife’s piercing voice, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know?” I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask, “What time are you coming back?” for she knows I will again truthfully answer, “I don’t know.”
“Take the mobile with you,” she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. If you want to truly enjoy life – beware of the technology trap!
It’s a bright day. I feel good. Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure.
Should I turn left? Should I turn right? I was free. Free to go wherever I desired. Free. To enjoy my day as I wanted. True freedom. To travel with no destination to reach. No task to complete. No deadlines to meet. Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner.
I see a bus, stop it and hop in.
“Where do you want to go?” the conductor asks.
“Where does this bus go?” I ask.
“Pune Railway Station.”
“Okay. One Pune Railway Station,” I say holding out a tenner.
The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin. I sit down, think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window. On these trips of mine I prefer traveling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot. Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums!
That’s what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes. Go where life leads you. Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune – near Shaniwar Wada. In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and Delhi it’s even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you wouldn’t dream of going to otherwise.
The PCMT bus reaches the Railway Station. It’s a smooth ride. (PCMT buses seem to be better than PMT buses!).
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds – I love the atmosphere. On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention.
“Want a seat?” a porter asks.
“No,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he pursues.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Waiting for someone,” he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage.
“No,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection. I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody. So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite.
If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You’ll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you. Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around. This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days Pune was called Poona.
Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. It’s thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling. I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about it’s business outside. People come, gulp their lassis in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savor each and every drop of the delicious lassi.
I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone – “Landmark” – what’s that? A swanky new music-cum-book store. I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and salesboys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings. I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity. Had I been a “successful” person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon. Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility.
I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music – like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid out and looks impressive. The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side. I start from the left. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing – there are books on every topic you can think of. The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my heart’s content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I’m totally immersed into doing something I love.
By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it’s almost three in the afternoon, I’m hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons. I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani – the signature dish of Dorabjee.
As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants – the menu is select – just a few choice dishes a single page. There’s Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savor the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavorsome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it.
The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants. At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardor. And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda. So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda. And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake.
I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books! And then just walk down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I’m tired and hungry. Maybe I’ll have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs. Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street. Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manney’s. The possibilities are endless!
Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby. Maybe I’ll jump into the first bus I see and go wherever it goes. How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town? Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park? Or maybe I’ll just head home. The possibilities are endless! I am free to do whatever I choose to do! Loaf to my heart’s content! To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
You can take my word for it, dear reader. There is nothing you’ll enjoy more than loafing. It is when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time. The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward. Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards? What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived?
If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it. There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it. The feast of life is before you. Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you’ll redeem the art of living from the business of living.
The Art of Traveling and The Art of Loafing – inextricably intertwined, aren’t they?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Monday, April 16, 2007
My Story ( a short story) by Vikram Karve
MY STORY
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It all started when God took my baby brother away. Poor thing! God took him away even before he was born. And Mamma was never the same again; she changed forever.
We were so happy then. My Papa, my Mamma, Granny and me. We all lived in a cute little house in a place called Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth in Pune.
In the morning Papa caught the company bus to his factory in Pimpri and Mamma walked me down to my school nearby on Bajirao Road. And the evenings we all went to the Talyatla Ganpati temple in Saras Baug, played on the lush green lawns, and if Papa was in a good mood he would treat me to a yummy Bhel prepared by the man with the huge flowing beard at the Kalpana Bhel stall on the way back.
On Sundays we would go to Laxmi Road for shopping, Misal at Santosh Bhavan, Amba ice cream at Ganu Shinde and, maybe, a Marathi movie at Prabhat, Vijay or Bhanuvilas.
And once in a while, Papa would take us on his Bajaj scooter to Camp, or a ride on the Jangli Maharaj Road, or to picnic spots like Khadakvasla and Katraj lakes, or up Sinhagarh Fort, and once we even went all the way to Lonavala; Papa, Mamma and me, all riding on our beloved and hardy scooter.
It was a good life, and we were happy and content. Two things are a must for a happy home – firstly, you should love your home, and always want to go home (your home should be the best place in the world for you); and, secondly, your home should love you, want you to come, beckon you, welcome you and like you to live in it. Our cute little house in Sadashiv Peth with all the loving people in living in it was indeed a happy home. And I had lots of friends all around.
One day they all said Mamma was going to have a baby. Being a girl myself, I wanted a baby sister to play with, but Granny scolded me and said it must be a baby brother, so I said okay – I would manage with a baby brother.
And suddenly one day, when Mamma’s tummy was bloating quite a bit, they rushed her to hospital, and God took my unborn baby brother away. And Mamma changed forever.
I sat beside Mamma in the hospital and consoled her, “Don’t worry. God will send another baby brother.”
And on hearing this Mamma started crying and said she would never have a baby again and I was her only baby.
She looked pale and had a sad look in her eyes for many days even after leaving hospital. Most of the time she would sit alone brooding by the window or moping all alone in her room.
“She’ll go crazy sitting in the house all day. She must do something!” everyone said, but Papa was adamant: “Who’ll look after the house, my mother, my daughter?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage everything,” Granny said, so Mamma joined a Computer class nearby. And soon she started becoming normal again. “She’s a natural programmer,” everyone praised her, and when she finished the course she was offered a good job in a top software firm.
“No way,” said Papa, “I’m the breadwinner. I don’t want my wife to work. I want her to look after the house.”
“MCP,” said everyone to Papa. I didn’t know what MCP meant, but it made Papa very angry.
“Let her work. I’ll manage the house,” Granny said.
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m a big girl now and can look after myself. I’ll study regularly and come first,” I promised.
And so, Mamma started working. And when she brought her first pay and gave it to Papa, he said proudly, “I’ll be the last person to touch my wife’s money, to live off my wife.” So my Mamma gave the money to Granny and Papa didn’t say a thing, he just sulked for days.
Life was hectic now. Mamma got up very early, cooked the food, did the housework, got ready and then both Papa and Mamma caught their respective company buses to their faraway workplaces – he to his factory in Pimpri and she to the IT Park. And after that Granny made me ready and I walked down Bajirao Road to my school.
One day my Mamma’s boss came home with Mamma. He said the company wanted to send Mamma abroad to the US for working on a project. He had come home to convince Papa to let her go. I thought Papa would argue, and hoped he would not let her go, but surprisingly he meekly agreed, probably thinking it was futile to argue, and Mamma went away to the States for three months.
Then there was an IT boom. That was a turning point in our lives. Mamma started doing better and better. Papa felt jealous that she was earning more than him, so he took VRS and started a business selling spare parts. And then a competition started between them, and soon they were making so much money that Sadashiv Peth wasn’t a good enough place to stay in any longer as it did not befit their new found status!
So we moved to a luxury apartment in a fancy township in a posh suburb of Pune, and I was put in a school known more for its snob appeal than studies. Our new house was in a beautiful colony, far away from the city, with landscaped gardens, clubhouse, swimming pool, gym, and so many facilities. It was so luxurious, and people living there so highbrow and snobbish, that Granny and I were miserable. “It’s like a 5 star prison,” she would say. She was right in one way. For the whole day when we were away she was trapped inside with nothing to but watch soaps on cable TV.
I too missed our cute old house in Sadashiv Peth, the Bhel, the trips to Saras Baug and Laxmi Road and most of all my earlier friends who were so friendly unlike the snobbish people here. Oh yes, this was indeed a better house, but our old place in Sadashiv Peth was certainly a better home!
But Granny and me – we managed somehow, as Mamma increased her trips abroad and Papa was busy expanding his flourishing business.
And suddenly one day God took Granny away. Mamma was abroad in the States on an important project and she just couldn’t come immediately. She came back after one month and for days Papa and she kept discussing something. I sensed it was about me.
And tomorrow morning, I’m off to an elite boarding school in Panchgani.
I don’t know whether what has happened is good or bad, or what is going to happen in future, but one thing is sure: If God hadn’t taken my baby brother away; I wouldn’t be going to boarding school!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It all started when God took my baby brother away. Poor thing! God took him away even before he was born. And Mamma was never the same again; she changed forever.
We were so happy then. My Papa, my Mamma, Granny and me. We all lived in a cute little house in a place called Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth in Pune.
In the morning Papa caught the company bus to his factory in Pimpri and Mamma walked me down to my school nearby on Bajirao Road. And the evenings we all went to the Talyatla Ganpati temple in Saras Baug, played on the lush green lawns, and if Papa was in a good mood he would treat me to a yummy Bhel prepared by the man with the huge flowing beard at the Kalpana Bhel stall on the way back.
On Sundays we would go to Laxmi Road for shopping, Misal at Santosh Bhavan, Amba ice cream at Ganu Shinde and, maybe, a Marathi movie at Prabhat, Vijay or Bhanuvilas.
And once in a while, Papa would take us on his Bajaj scooter to Camp, or a ride on the Jangli Maharaj Road, or to picnic spots like Khadakvasla and Katraj lakes, or up Sinhagarh Fort, and once we even went all the way to Lonavala; Papa, Mamma and me, all riding on our beloved and hardy scooter.
It was a good life, and we were happy and content. Two things are a must for a happy home – firstly, you should love your home, and always want to go home (your home should be the best place in the world for you); and, secondly, your home should love you, want you to come, beckon you, welcome you and like you to live in it. Our cute little house in Sadashiv Peth with all the loving people in living in it was indeed a happy home. And I had lots of friends all around.
One day they all said Mamma was going to have a baby. Being a girl myself, I wanted a baby sister to play with, but Granny scolded me and said it must be a baby brother, so I said okay – I would manage with a baby brother.
And suddenly one day, when Mamma’s tummy was bloating quite a bit, they rushed her to hospital, and God took my unborn baby brother away. And Mamma changed forever.
I sat beside Mamma in the hospital and consoled her, “Don’t worry. God will send another baby brother.”
And on hearing this Mamma started crying and said she would never have a baby again and I was her only baby.
She looked pale and had a sad look in her eyes for many days even after leaving hospital. Most of the time she would sit alone brooding by the window or moping all alone in her room.
“She’ll go crazy sitting in the house all day. She must do something!” everyone said, but Papa was adamant: “Who’ll look after the house, my mother, my daughter?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage everything,” Granny said, so Mamma joined a Computer class nearby. And soon she started becoming normal again. “She’s a natural programmer,” everyone praised her, and when she finished the course she was offered a good job in a top software firm.
“No way,” said Papa, “I’m the breadwinner. I don’t want my wife to work. I want her to look after the house.”
“MCP,” said everyone to Papa. I didn’t know what MCP meant, but it made Papa very angry.
“Let her work. I’ll manage the house,” Granny said.
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m a big girl now and can look after myself. I’ll study regularly and come first,” I promised.
And so, Mamma started working. And when she brought her first pay and gave it to Papa, he said proudly, “I’ll be the last person to touch my wife’s money, to live off my wife.” So my Mamma gave the money to Granny and Papa didn’t say a thing, he just sulked for days.
Life was hectic now. Mamma got up very early, cooked the food, did the housework, got ready and then both Papa and Mamma caught their respective company buses to their faraway workplaces – he to his factory in Pimpri and she to the IT Park. And after that Granny made me ready and I walked down Bajirao Road to my school.
One day my Mamma’s boss came home with Mamma. He said the company wanted to send Mamma abroad to the US for working on a project. He had come home to convince Papa to let her go. I thought Papa would argue, and hoped he would not let her go, but surprisingly he meekly agreed, probably thinking it was futile to argue, and Mamma went away to the States for three months.
Then there was an IT boom. That was a turning point in our lives. Mamma started doing better and better. Papa felt jealous that she was earning more than him, so he took VRS and started a business selling spare parts. And then a competition started between them, and soon they were making so much money that Sadashiv Peth wasn’t a good enough place to stay in any longer as it did not befit their new found status!
So we moved to a luxury apartment in a fancy township in a posh suburb of Pune, and I was put in a school known more for its snob appeal than studies. Our new house was in a beautiful colony, far away from the city, with landscaped gardens, clubhouse, swimming pool, gym, and so many facilities. It was so luxurious, and people living there so highbrow and snobbish, that Granny and I were miserable. “It’s like a 5 star prison,” she would say. She was right in one way. For the whole day when we were away she was trapped inside with nothing to but watch soaps on cable TV.
I too missed our cute old house in Sadashiv Peth, the Bhel, the trips to Saras Baug and Laxmi Road and most of all my earlier friends who were so friendly unlike the snobbish people here. Oh yes, this was indeed a better house, but our old place in Sadashiv Peth was certainly a better home!
But Granny and me – we managed somehow, as Mamma increased her trips abroad and Papa was busy expanding his flourishing business.
And suddenly one day God took Granny away. Mamma was abroad in the States on an important project and she just couldn’t come immediately. She came back after one month and for days Papa and she kept discussing something. I sensed it was about me.
And tomorrow morning, I’m off to an elite boarding school in Panchgani.
I don’t know whether what has happened is good or bad, or what is going to happen in future, but one thing is sure: If God hadn’t taken my baby brother away; I wouldn’t be going to boarding school!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, January 29, 2007
Footloose in Pune
THE ART OF LOAFING
[ Footloose in Pune ]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
What is ‘loafing’?
Idling away one’s time on useless things? Aimless loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn’t it? So does the word loafer. Okay let’s say it’s aimless wandering. Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner! Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing. Spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
That’s what I did yesterday. I loafed. Spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. Loafing. Let me tell you about it.
It’s a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife’s piercing voice, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know?” I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask, “What time are you coming back?” for she knows I will again truthfully answer, “I don’t know.”
“Take the mobile with you,” she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day.
It’s a bright day. I feel good. Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure.
Should I turn left? Should I turn right? I was free. Free to go wherever I desired. Free. To enjoy my day as I wanted. True freedom. To travel with no destination to reach. No task to complete. No deadlines to meet. Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner.
I see a bus, stop it and hop in.
“Where do you want to go?” the conductor asks.
“Where does this bus go?” I ask.
“Pune Railway Station.”
“Okay. One Pune Railway Station,” I say holding out a tenner.
The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin. I sit down, think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window. On these trips of mine I prefer traveling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot. Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas.
That’s what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes. Go where life leads you. Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune – near Shaniwar Wada. In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and Delhi it’s even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you wouldn’t dream of going to otherwise.
The PCMT bus reaches the Railway Station. It’s a smooth ride. (PCMT buses seem to be better than PMT buses!).
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds – I love the atmosphere. On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention.
“Want a seat?” a hamaal asks.
“No,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he pursues.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Waiting for someone,” he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage.
“No,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection. I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody. So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite.
If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You’ll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you. Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around. This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days Pune was called Poona.
Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. It’s thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling. I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about it’s business outside. People come, gulp their lassis in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savor each and every drop of the delicious lassi.
I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone – “Landmark” – what’s that? A swanky new music-cum-book store. I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and salesboys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings. I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity. Had I been a “successful” person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon. Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility.
I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music – like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid out and looks impressive. The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side. I start from the left. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing – there are books on every topic you can think of. The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my heart’s content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I’m totally immersed into doing something I love.
By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it’s almost three in the afternoon, I’m hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons. I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani – the signature dish of Dorabjee.
As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants – the menu is select – just a few choice dishes a single page. There’s Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savor the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavorsome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it.
The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants. At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardor. And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda. So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda. And then to Kayani, down East Street to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake.
I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books! And then just walk down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I’m tired and hungry. Maybe I’ll have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs. Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street. Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby. Maybe I’ll jump into the first bus I see and go wherever it goes. How about going for a long walk on Lami road into the heart of town? Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park? Or maybe I’ll just head home. The possibilities are endless! I feel on top of the world. I am proud to be a loafer - free to do whatever I choose to do! Loaf to my heart’s content! To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
You can take my word for it, dear reader. There is nothing you’ll enjoy more than loafing. It is when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time. The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward. Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards? What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived?
If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it. There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it. The feast of life is before you. Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you’ll redeem the art of living from the business of living.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
[ Footloose in Pune ]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
What is ‘loafing’?
Idling away one’s time on useless things? Aimless loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn’t it? So does the word loafer. Okay let’s say it’s aimless wandering. Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner! Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing. Spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
That’s what I did yesterday. I loafed. Spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. Loafing. Let me tell you about it.
It’s a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife’s piercing voice, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know?” I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask, “What time are you coming back?” for she knows I will again truthfully answer, “I don’t know.”
“Take the mobile with you,” she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day.
It’s a bright day. I feel good. Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure.
Should I turn left? Should I turn right? I was free. Free to go wherever I desired. Free. To enjoy my day as I wanted. True freedom. To travel with no destination to reach. No task to complete. No deadlines to meet. Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner.
I see a bus, stop it and hop in.
“Where do you want to go?” the conductor asks.
“Where does this bus go?” I ask.
“Pune Railway Station.”
“Okay. One Pune Railway Station,” I say holding out a tenner.
The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin. I sit down, think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window. On these trips of mine I prefer traveling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot. Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas.
That’s what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes. Go where life leads you. Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune – near Shaniwar Wada. In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and Delhi it’s even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you wouldn’t dream of going to otherwise.
The PCMT bus reaches the Railway Station. It’s a smooth ride. (PCMT buses seem to be better than PMT buses!).
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds – I love the atmosphere. On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention.
“Want a seat?” a hamaal asks.
“No,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he pursues.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Waiting for someone,” he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage.
“No,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection. I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody. So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite.
If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You’ll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you. Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around. This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days Pune was called Poona.
Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. It’s thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling. I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about it’s business outside. People come, gulp their lassis in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savor each and every drop of the delicious lassi.
I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone – “Landmark” – what’s that? A swanky new music-cum-book store. I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and salesboys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings. I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity. Had I been a “successful” person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon. Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility.
I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music – like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid out and looks impressive. The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side. I start from the left. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing – there are books on every topic you can think of. The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my heart’s content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I’m totally immersed into doing something I love.
By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it’s almost three in the afternoon, I’m hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons. I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani – the signature dish of Dorabjee.
As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants – the menu is select – just a few choice dishes a single page. There’s Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savor the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavorsome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it.
The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants. At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardor. And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda. So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda. And then to Kayani, down East Street to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake.
I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books! And then just walk down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I’m tired and hungry. Maybe I’ll have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs. Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street. Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby. Maybe I’ll jump into the first bus I see and go wherever it goes. How about going for a long walk on Lami road into the heart of town? Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park? Or maybe I’ll just head home. The possibilities are endless! I feel on top of the world. I am proud to be a loafer - free to do whatever I choose to do! Loaf to my heart’s content! To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
You can take my word for it, dear reader. There is nothing you’ll enjoy more than loafing. It is when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time. The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward. Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards? What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived?
If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it. There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it. The feast of life is before you. Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you’ll redeem the art of living from the business of living.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Sunday, December 31, 2006
My Name is Sherry Karve (Part 2) by Vikram Karve
MY NAME IS SHERRY KARVE
(Part 2)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
On Christmas Day, and when I fetched the Times of India from the paperboy early in the morning and gave it to my father, he began reading to my mother something about a new pet saloon started in Pune at Salunke Vihar where dogs are pampered, groomed, massaged, styled, pedicured and everything else like the beauty parlours you humans go to. It’s run by a girl called Pooja Karve, and that’s good, because I am a ‘Karve’ too – Sherry Karve – and I’m sure Pooja Karve will give her canine namesake special loving care and chic grooming. I’m going to tell my father and mother that I need some sophisticated exotic pampering and they must take me Pooja Karve’s grooming parlour soon for the complete works and I’m not going to tolerate their rustic style rough and tough bathing and brushing anymore. After all I’m a delicate girl and I want to look and feel good.
Now my father is calling me for playing the “bone-game” but before that let me tell you about my home. In front is a huge garden, or rather an orchard, with all types of trees and bushes, and a lush green lawn on which I love to frolic, prance and roll upside down, and lots of flower beds which I love digging up to my mother’s horror. I love digging up the mud – it’s so tasty – and there is plenty of it in the spacious kitchen garden behind the house where I create havoc digging up to my heart’s content, and the only thing I’ve spared are the tomatoes and some horrible tasting leaves called Alu because they itch.
I’m lucky – they don’t tie me up but leave me free to roam and play around as I please. And there is so much to explore and investigate, in the nooks and corners of our verdant garden with plenty of trees, bushes and hedges. There is so much to sniff, so much to dig, and so much to chase - squirrels, mongooses and birds to chase. The cats have disappeared though; ever since the day I almost caught one.
When I want to go out I tap the front door with my paws and they let me out, and when I want to come in I peep through the windows, and if no one notices I bang the door from the outside or make entreating sounds.
My father has warned me not to leave the compound, but sometimes I can’t resist the temptation, and slither under a gap I’ve discovered under the barbed wire and go across to meet my neighbour Sigmund, a five year old pure breed Golden Retriever, in case he is tied outside. He’s an old fogey, quite a boring condescending pompous fellow, and I hate his snooty and snobbish manner, but he’s the only canine company I have so I really don’t have much of a choice. Also, the poor guy is locked inside or tied up most of the time so I have to do my bit to cheer him up. If he’s inside I bark and sometimes he returns my bark, but most of the time he is quite stuck-up and gloomy. The only time he seemed to be all excited and active, and was desperately chasing me all over, was when I had my first chums a few days ago, but he had no chance as my suddenly overprotective father was guarding me like a shadow, never taking me off the leash when I was outdoors. Those were the only few days he totally restricted my freedom, and when I managed to slip away across the fence once, all hell broke loose, and I was located, chased, captured and soundly scolded for the first time. I felt miserable, and sulked, but then my father caressed and baby-talked me and I knew how much he loved and cared for me, and it was all okay. And during those sensitive days he used to specially pamper me and take me for long walks, on a tight leash, keeping an eagle eye and stick ready in his hand for those desperate rowdy rascal mongrels who suddenly appeared from nowhere and used to frantically hang around and follow me, looking at me in a lewd restless manner. Once they even had the gumption to sneak into the compound at night, and growl outside, till my father chased them away.
When I was small, and my gums itched, and my milk teeth began to break through, I could not resist chewing up anything I could lay my teeth upon – like shoes, slippers, clothes, toothbrushes, furniture . I especially loved my father’s favourite Kolhapuri kapshi chappals which were so soft and yummy. So my father bought me a chewy bone which, it said on the wrapper, was guaranteed to save everything else. I don’t know why, but I secretly buried the bone in a hole I dug below the Mango tree, and I used to dig it out when I thought no one was looking, chew it a bit, and bury it in some other secret place.
One day my inquisitive mother found out, and she dug up the bone when I was sleeping and hid in under the pomegranate tree. When I didn’t find it, at first I was confused, maybe it was my neighbour Sigmund, but then he was too old for chewy toy bones. Then I tracked the bone down with my nose, and when I spied my mother giggling and grinning like a Cheshire cat, I knew who was the culprit. This started the “bone-game”. First they (the humans – my mother and father) would give me the bone, and after I hid it they would rush out into the garden and dig it out – then they would hide the bone (after locking me in the house so I could not see) and make me find it, which I did using my nose.
I wondered how they found the bone so fast, and one day I caught them spying crouching behind the hedge when they thought I wasn’t looking and the mystery was solved. So now I first let them see where I’m hiding the bone, and when they complacently and confidently go inside thinking they know everything, I dig out the bone and hide it some other place which they do not know and then watch the fun as they search in vain. Then when they go inside, and my father asks me to get the bone, I run out and get it, for which I earn a tidbit.
The way these humans act sometimes, I really wonder who is more intelligent – they or we? Apart from my mother and father, who I’ve told you about, there are some more humans who live in my house – my sister, my brother, grandmothers, and a grandfather – and I’ll tell you all about them next time. And I’ll also tell you about the long exploratory walks I go on with my father in the jungle near Mula River, and more about my childhood pranks. And if you’ve missed my first writing about my early life, I’m putting that piece below for you to read.
Happy New Year,
See you soon,
Sherry
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://karve.wordpress.com
MY NAME IS SHERRY
(Part 1)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
My name is Sherry. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.
I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick. He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry,” and gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.
When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house. She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.
The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!” Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!
I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.
My ‘ birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door (but the vet wanted proof, so in the column against breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’). I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people wanting to send me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt frightened when I wondered what was going to be my destiny.
One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. They got into a car and drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till they reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.
Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure. This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].
“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.
“Yes,” My father said feeding me warm milk.
They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.
I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://360.yahoo.com/vikramkarve
(Part 2)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
On Christmas Day, and when I fetched the Times of India from the paperboy early in the morning and gave it to my father, he began reading to my mother something about a new pet saloon started in Pune at Salunke Vihar where dogs are pampered, groomed, massaged, styled, pedicured and everything else like the beauty parlours you humans go to. It’s run by a girl called Pooja Karve, and that’s good, because I am a ‘Karve’ too – Sherry Karve – and I’m sure Pooja Karve will give her canine namesake special loving care and chic grooming. I’m going to tell my father and mother that I need some sophisticated exotic pampering and they must take me Pooja Karve’s grooming parlour soon for the complete works and I’m not going to tolerate their rustic style rough and tough bathing and brushing anymore. After all I’m a delicate girl and I want to look and feel good.
Now my father is calling me for playing the “bone-game” but before that let me tell you about my home. In front is a huge garden, or rather an orchard, with all types of trees and bushes, and a lush green lawn on which I love to frolic, prance and roll upside down, and lots of flower beds which I love digging up to my mother’s horror. I love digging up the mud – it’s so tasty – and there is plenty of it in the spacious kitchen garden behind the house where I create havoc digging up to my heart’s content, and the only thing I’ve spared are the tomatoes and some horrible tasting leaves called Alu because they itch.
I’m lucky – they don’t tie me up but leave me free to roam and play around as I please. And there is so much to explore and investigate, in the nooks and corners of our verdant garden with plenty of trees, bushes and hedges. There is so much to sniff, so much to dig, and so much to chase - squirrels, mongooses and birds to chase. The cats have disappeared though; ever since the day I almost caught one.
When I want to go out I tap the front door with my paws and they let me out, and when I want to come in I peep through the windows, and if no one notices I bang the door from the outside or make entreating sounds.
My father has warned me not to leave the compound, but sometimes I can’t resist the temptation, and slither under a gap I’ve discovered under the barbed wire and go across to meet my neighbour Sigmund, a five year old pure breed Golden Retriever, in case he is tied outside. He’s an old fogey, quite a boring condescending pompous fellow, and I hate his snooty and snobbish manner, but he’s the only canine company I have so I really don’t have much of a choice. Also, the poor guy is locked inside or tied up most of the time so I have to do my bit to cheer him up. If he’s inside I bark and sometimes he returns my bark, but most of the time he is quite stuck-up and gloomy. The only time he seemed to be all excited and active, and was desperately chasing me all over, was when I had my first chums a few days ago, but he had no chance as my suddenly overprotective father was guarding me like a shadow, never taking me off the leash when I was outdoors. Those were the only few days he totally restricted my freedom, and when I managed to slip away across the fence once, all hell broke loose, and I was located, chased, captured and soundly scolded for the first time. I felt miserable, and sulked, but then my father caressed and baby-talked me and I knew how much he loved and cared for me, and it was all okay. And during those sensitive days he used to specially pamper me and take me for long walks, on a tight leash, keeping an eagle eye and stick ready in his hand for those desperate rowdy rascal mongrels who suddenly appeared from nowhere and used to frantically hang around and follow me, looking at me in a lewd restless manner. Once they even had the gumption to sneak into the compound at night, and growl outside, till my father chased them away.
When I was small, and my gums itched, and my milk teeth began to break through, I could not resist chewing up anything I could lay my teeth upon – like shoes, slippers, clothes, toothbrushes, furniture . I especially loved my father’s favourite Kolhapuri kapshi chappals which were so soft and yummy. So my father bought me a chewy bone which, it said on the wrapper, was guaranteed to save everything else. I don’t know why, but I secretly buried the bone in a hole I dug below the Mango tree, and I used to dig it out when I thought no one was looking, chew it a bit, and bury it in some other secret place.
One day my inquisitive mother found out, and she dug up the bone when I was sleeping and hid in under the pomegranate tree. When I didn’t find it, at first I was confused, maybe it was my neighbour Sigmund, but then he was too old for chewy toy bones. Then I tracked the bone down with my nose, and when I spied my mother giggling and grinning like a Cheshire cat, I knew who was the culprit. This started the “bone-game”. First they (the humans – my mother and father) would give me the bone, and after I hid it they would rush out into the garden and dig it out – then they would hide the bone (after locking me in the house so I could not see) and make me find it, which I did using my nose.
I wondered how they found the bone so fast, and one day I caught them spying crouching behind the hedge when they thought I wasn’t looking and the mystery was solved. So now I first let them see where I’m hiding the bone, and when they complacently and confidently go inside thinking they know everything, I dig out the bone and hide it some other place which they do not know and then watch the fun as they search in vain. Then when they go inside, and my father asks me to get the bone, I run out and get it, for which I earn a tidbit.
The way these humans act sometimes, I really wonder who is more intelligent – they or we? Apart from my mother and father, who I’ve told you about, there are some more humans who live in my house – my sister, my brother, grandmothers, and a grandfather – and I’ll tell you all about them next time. And I’ll also tell you about the long exploratory walks I go on with my father in the jungle near Mula River, and more about my childhood pranks. And if you’ve missed my first writing about my early life, I’m putting that piece below for you to read.
Happy New Year,
See you soon,
Sherry
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://karve.wordpress.com
MY NAME IS SHERRY
(Part 1)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
My name is Sherry. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.
I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick. He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry,” and gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.
When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house. She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.
The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!” Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!
I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.
My ‘ birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door (but the vet wanted proof, so in the column against breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’). I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people wanting to send me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt frightened when I wondered what was going to be my destiny.
One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. They got into a car and drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till they reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.
Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure. This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].
“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.
“Yes,” My father said feeding me warm milk.
They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.
I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://360.yahoo.com/vikramkarve
Friday, November 03, 2006
Value For Money Good Food Guide South Mumbai and Pune by Vikram Karve
EATING OUT IN SOUTH MUMBAI AND PUNE – PART 1
MY FAVOURITE FOOD AND WHERE I EAT IT
(Vikram Karve’s Good Food Guide to eating out in South Mumbai and Pune)
VIKRAM KARVE
I love good food. And I love walking around searching for good food – on my frequent ‘food walks’ as I call them. Let me share with you, dear fellow foodie, some of my favourite eateries. Most of them are in South Mumbai, near Churchgate, where I lived for six of the best years of my life, a few (where mentioned) are in Pune which is my home town and where I stay now.
Read on. It’s my very own Vikram Karve’s Value For Money Good Food Guide. I’ve walked there and eaten there. It’s a totally random compilation as I write as I remember and I may have missed out some of my favourites but I’ll add them on, in subsequent parts, as and when memory jogs me and also keep adding new places I discover during my food walks and trails. Try some places and let me know whether you liked it.
Vada Pav - CTO Vada Pav (Ashok Satam’s Stall) alongside the Central Telegraph Office (CTO) at Flora Fountain ( Hutatma Chowk). Or at Sahaydri at Churchgate. In Pune, the ubiquitous Joshi or Rohit Vadewale but their vadas are not as crisp or zesty as Mumbai’s CTO vada.
Misal Pav – Vinay Health Home in Girgaum . Walk down Marine Drive, cross the road near Taraporewala Aquarium, take the lane between Kaivalyadhama Yoga Centre and Ladies Hostel ( it’s called Income Tax Lane), cross the railway overbridge, walk straight on Thakurdwar Road, cross Girgaum (JSS) Road, walk a bit and Vinay is to your right. In Pune try Ramnath on Tilak Road or Bedekar in Narayan Peth.
Kheema Pav – Stadium. Next to Churchgate Station. Kyani at Dhobi Talao.
Seekh Kebabs – Ayubs (Chotte Mian). Take the lane to the left of Rhythm House Music Store at Kalaghoda and let your nose guide you. Or else head for Bade Mian near Regal or sarvi at Nagpada.
Jeera Butter – Ideal Bakery. Kandewadi, Girgaum. And try the sugarcane juice at Rasvanti next door.
Chicken Stew ( Kerala Style), Malabar Paratha, Mutton Korma, Fish Curry and Appams – Fountain Plaza. In the lane off Handloom House. Fort. [Brings back nostalgic memories of Ceylon Bake House in Ernakulam Kochi (Cochin)]
Chicken Biryani – Olympia. Colaba Causeway. In Pune it’s Dorabjee & Sons restaurant on Dastur Meher road off Sarbatwala Chowk in Pune Camp or Goodluck in Deccan.
Mutton Biryani – Shalimar. Bhendi Bazaar. I like the Chicken Chilly and Raan - it’s exquisite, like Karim’s of Delhi.
Dabba Gosht – Delhi Darbar, Grant Road or Colaba. In Pune try Sadanand at Baner.
Malvani Cuisine – Sachivalaya Gymkhana Canteen. Opposite Mantralaya. Nariman Point. Bombil Fry, Pomfret masala, Kombdi (Chicken) Vada and Lunch Thali.
Gomantak Cuisine - Sandeep Gomantak. Bazargate Street. Fort.
White Chicken, Dabba Gosht, Chiken Masala and Khaboosh Roti – Baghdadi. Near Regal. Off Colaba Causeway.
Nihari – Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar. Near Metro.
Nalli Nihari – Noor Mohammadi. Bhendi Bazaar.
Berry Pulao – Brittania. Ballard Estate.
Puri Bhaji – Pancham Puriwala. Bazargate street. Opposite CST Station (VT).
Kolhapuri Cuisine – I go to ‘Purepur Kolhapur’ at Peru Gate Sadashiv Peth in Pune for authentic Kolhapuri Pandhra Rassa, Tambda Rassa and Kheema vati. In Kolhapur it’s Opal.
Gulab Jamun – Kailash Parbat. 1st Pasta Lane. Colaba Causeway.
Rasgulla – Bhaishankar Gaurishankar. CP Tank.
Khichdi – Khichdi Samrat. VP Road. CP Tank.
Vegetarian Thali – Bhagat Tarachand. Mumbadevi. Zaveri Bazar. And of course, Samrat, Churchgate. In Pune it’s Shreyas on Apte Road and Satara Road, Panchami on Satara Road and Durvankur on Tilak Road.
Navrattan Kurma – Vihar. JT Road. Shanker Jaikishan Chowk. Opp Samrat. Churchgate.
Veg Burger and Chicken Cafreal Croissant – Croissants. Churchgate. Or Burger King at the end of East Street in Pune.
Tea while browsing books – Cha-Bar. Oxford Bookstore. Churchgate.
Just a refreshing cup of Tea, Irani style – Stadium. Churchgate. Goodluck, Pune.
Ice Cream – Rustoms, Churchgate and Bachellor’s, Chowpatty (green chilli ice cream). In Pune Ganu Shinde and Kawre on Laxmi Road. Or Gular Mastani House on Satara Road near City pride for Mastani.
Pav Bhaji – Lenin Pav Bhaji Stall. Khau Galli. New Marine Lines. Near SNDT. Sardar, Tardeo. Sukh Sagar, Opera House.
Jalebi – Pancharatna Jalebi House. Near Roxy. Opera House.
Milk Shakes, Juices and uniquely flavored ice creams – Bachellor’s. Opposite Chowpatty.
Stuffed Parathas – Samovar. Jehangir Art Gallery. Chaitanya, opp Fergusson College, Pune
Grilled Meat, Sizzlers and Steaks – Churchill. Colaba Causeway. Sundance, Churchgate. Alps, behind Taj, Kobe and Sizzlers - The Place on Moledina Road next to Manney’s in Pune.
Sea food – Anant Ashram. Khotachiwadi. Girgaum. And so many places around Fort – Mahesh, Apoorva, Trishna, Fountain Inn, Bharat, Ankur .
Non Veg Multi Cuisine – Jimmy Boy near Horniman Circle
Apple Pie and Ginger Biscuits – Yazdani Bakery. Cawasji Patel Street. Between PM Road and Veer Nariman Road. Fort.
Cakes – Sassanian Boulangerie. 1st Marine Street. Near Metro.
Buns, Breads and Pastries – Gaylord Bake Shop. Churchgate.
Falooda – Badshah. Crawford Market. Shalimar, Bhendi Bazar.
Curds – Parsi Dairy. Princess Street.
Sandwiches – Marz-o-rin. Main Street. MG Road. Pune.
Chole Bhature – Monafood. Main Street. Pune. Darshan, Prabhat Road Pune.
Shrewsbury Biscuits and Choco-Walnut cake– Kayani Bakery. East Street. Pune.
The mere thought of Shrewsbury biscuits evokes in me a sensation I cannot describe. I am feeling nostalgic and am off to Pune - for Shrewsbury at Kayani, wafers at Budhani, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Amba Barfi and Bakarwadi at Chitale, Mutton Biryani and Dhansak at Dorabjee, Misal at Ramnath, Sizzlers at The Place, Pandhra Rassa at Purepur Kolhapur, Mango Ice Cream at Ganu Shinde, Mastani at Kavare, Bhel at Saras Baug and on the banks of Khadakvasla lake, Pithla Bhakri, Kanda Bhaji and tak on top of Sinhagarh Fort, Chinese at Kamling (Oh no. Sadly it’s closed down so I’ll go across to the end of East Street to the East End Chinese takeaway next to Burger King).
And guess what? The moment I reach Pune, I’ll walk across the station and enjoy a refreshing Lassi at Shiv Kailas. And then walk down in the hot sun to Main Street. One thing I’ll miss is the non-veg samosas at erstwhile Naaz on the West End corner at the entrance to Main Street. The good old Naaz and Kamling are two places I really miss.
See you then. It’s one in the afternoon and I’m hungry. I’m going out for lunch – guess where !
Right now I’m near Aundh in Pune and I’m busy discovering interesting eating places. The multicuisine Polka Dots at Parihar Chowk for it’s Roasts, Season’s and Sarjaa for family dining, rasoi looks promising, Spicers for Lamingtons and cakes et al, Babumoshai for roshogullas and lavang lata, Shiv Sagar for Pav Bhaji, and the usual Udipi fare, a place called Thomson which claims to serve Kerala cuisine which I’m planning to try but did not venture into as it was deserted (crowded ambience and busy rapid turnover are the leitmotif of a good eatery), Diwadkars for Bhel, Vada Pav, Misal and Mann Dairy for a delicious lassi.
I foodwalked in Aundh and was thoroughly disappointed. In Aundh there are all the usual fast food pizza and burger joints, some high falutin restaurants and a few nondescript commonplace characterless eateries serving run of the mill stuff; but sadly there are very few authentic value for money down-to-earth no nonsense Spartan eateries around here where I can relish genuine cuisine to my heart’s delight.
South Mumbai is a foodie’s delight! Sadly, Aundh is certainly not a foodie destination. Or is it? Anyone know any good value for money food eateries around here? Or do I have to go all the way to Pune City or Camp?
Dear fellow foodies. Please do send in your comments so I can keep updating.
Happy Eating !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
MY FAVOURITE FOOD AND WHERE I EAT IT
(Vikram Karve’s Good Food Guide to eating out in South Mumbai and Pune)
VIKRAM KARVE
I love good food. And I love walking around searching for good food – on my frequent ‘food walks’ as I call them. Let me share with you, dear fellow foodie, some of my favourite eateries. Most of them are in South Mumbai, near Churchgate, where I lived for six of the best years of my life, a few (where mentioned) are in Pune which is my home town and where I stay now.
Read on. It’s my very own Vikram Karve’s Value For Money Good Food Guide. I’ve walked there and eaten there. It’s a totally random compilation as I write as I remember and I may have missed out some of my favourites but I’ll add them on, in subsequent parts, as and when memory jogs me and also keep adding new places I discover during my food walks and trails. Try some places and let me know whether you liked it.
Vada Pav - CTO Vada Pav (Ashok Satam’s Stall) alongside the Central Telegraph Office (CTO) at Flora Fountain ( Hutatma Chowk). Or at Sahaydri at Churchgate. In Pune, the ubiquitous Joshi or Rohit Vadewale but their vadas are not as crisp or zesty as Mumbai’s CTO vada.
Misal Pav – Vinay Health Home in Girgaum . Walk down Marine Drive, cross the road near Taraporewala Aquarium, take the lane between Kaivalyadhama Yoga Centre and Ladies Hostel ( it’s called Income Tax Lane), cross the railway overbridge, walk straight on Thakurdwar Road, cross Girgaum (JSS) Road, walk a bit and Vinay is to your right. In Pune try Ramnath on Tilak Road or Bedekar in Narayan Peth.
Kheema Pav – Stadium. Next to Churchgate Station. Kyani at Dhobi Talao.
Seekh Kebabs – Ayubs (Chotte Mian). Take the lane to the left of Rhythm House Music Store at Kalaghoda and let your nose guide you. Or else head for Bade Mian near Regal or sarvi at Nagpada.
Jeera Butter – Ideal Bakery. Kandewadi, Girgaum. And try the sugarcane juice at Rasvanti next door.
Chicken Stew ( Kerala Style), Malabar Paratha, Mutton Korma, Fish Curry and Appams – Fountain Plaza. In the lane off Handloom House. Fort. [Brings back nostalgic memories of Ceylon Bake House in Ernakulam Kochi (Cochin)]
Chicken Biryani – Olympia. Colaba Causeway. In Pune it’s Dorabjee & Sons restaurant on Dastur Meher road off Sarbatwala Chowk in Pune Camp or Goodluck in Deccan.
Mutton Biryani – Shalimar. Bhendi Bazaar. I like the Chicken Chilly and Raan - it’s exquisite, like Karim’s of Delhi.
Dabba Gosht – Delhi Darbar, Grant Road or Colaba. In Pune try Sadanand at Baner.
Malvani Cuisine – Sachivalaya Gymkhana Canteen. Opposite Mantralaya. Nariman Point. Bombil Fry, Pomfret masala, Kombdi (Chicken) Vada and Lunch Thali.
Gomantak Cuisine - Sandeep Gomantak. Bazargate Street. Fort.
White Chicken, Dabba Gosht, Chiken Masala and Khaboosh Roti – Baghdadi. Near Regal. Off Colaba Causeway.
Nihari – Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar. Near Metro.
Nalli Nihari – Noor Mohammadi. Bhendi Bazaar.
Berry Pulao – Brittania. Ballard Estate.
Puri Bhaji – Pancham Puriwala. Bazargate street. Opposite CST Station (VT).
Kolhapuri Cuisine – I go to ‘Purepur Kolhapur’ at Peru Gate Sadashiv Peth in Pune for authentic Kolhapuri Pandhra Rassa, Tambda Rassa and Kheema vati. In Kolhapur it’s Opal.
Gulab Jamun – Kailash Parbat. 1st Pasta Lane. Colaba Causeway.
Rasgulla – Bhaishankar Gaurishankar. CP Tank.
Khichdi – Khichdi Samrat. VP Road. CP Tank.
Vegetarian Thali – Bhagat Tarachand. Mumbadevi. Zaveri Bazar. And of course, Samrat, Churchgate. In Pune it’s Shreyas on Apte Road and Satara Road, Panchami on Satara Road and Durvankur on Tilak Road.
Navrattan Kurma – Vihar. JT Road. Shanker Jaikishan Chowk. Opp Samrat. Churchgate.
Veg Burger and Chicken Cafreal Croissant – Croissants. Churchgate. Or Burger King at the end of East Street in Pune.
Tea while browsing books – Cha-Bar. Oxford Bookstore. Churchgate.
Just a refreshing cup of Tea, Irani style – Stadium. Churchgate. Goodluck, Pune.
Ice Cream – Rustoms, Churchgate and Bachellor’s, Chowpatty (green chilli ice cream). In Pune Ganu Shinde and Kawre on Laxmi Road. Or Gular Mastani House on Satara Road near City pride for Mastani.
Pav Bhaji – Lenin Pav Bhaji Stall. Khau Galli. New Marine Lines. Near SNDT. Sardar, Tardeo. Sukh Sagar, Opera House.
Jalebi – Pancharatna Jalebi House. Near Roxy. Opera House.
Milk Shakes, Juices and uniquely flavored ice creams – Bachellor’s. Opposite Chowpatty.
Stuffed Parathas – Samovar. Jehangir Art Gallery. Chaitanya, opp Fergusson College, Pune
Grilled Meat, Sizzlers and Steaks – Churchill. Colaba Causeway. Sundance, Churchgate. Alps, behind Taj, Kobe and Sizzlers - The Place on Moledina Road next to Manney’s in Pune.
Sea food – Anant Ashram. Khotachiwadi. Girgaum. And so many places around Fort – Mahesh, Apoorva, Trishna, Fountain Inn, Bharat, Ankur .
Non Veg Multi Cuisine – Jimmy Boy near Horniman Circle
Apple Pie and Ginger Biscuits – Yazdani Bakery. Cawasji Patel Street. Between PM Road and Veer Nariman Road. Fort.
Cakes – Sassanian Boulangerie. 1st Marine Street. Near Metro.
Buns, Breads and Pastries – Gaylord Bake Shop. Churchgate.
Falooda – Badshah. Crawford Market. Shalimar, Bhendi Bazar.
Curds – Parsi Dairy. Princess Street.
Sandwiches – Marz-o-rin. Main Street. MG Road. Pune.
Chole Bhature – Monafood. Main Street. Pune. Darshan, Prabhat Road Pune.
Shrewsbury Biscuits and Choco-Walnut cake– Kayani Bakery. East Street. Pune.
The mere thought of Shrewsbury biscuits evokes in me a sensation I cannot describe. I am feeling nostalgic and am off to Pune - for Shrewsbury at Kayani, wafers at Budhani, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Amba Barfi and Bakarwadi at Chitale, Mutton Biryani and Dhansak at Dorabjee, Misal at Ramnath, Sizzlers at The Place, Pandhra Rassa at Purepur Kolhapur, Mango Ice Cream at Ganu Shinde, Mastani at Kavare, Bhel at Saras Baug and on the banks of Khadakvasla lake, Pithla Bhakri, Kanda Bhaji and tak on top of Sinhagarh Fort, Chinese at Kamling (Oh no. Sadly it’s closed down so I’ll go across to the end of East Street to the East End Chinese takeaway next to Burger King).
And guess what? The moment I reach Pune, I’ll walk across the station and enjoy a refreshing Lassi at Shiv Kailas. And then walk down in the hot sun to Main Street. One thing I’ll miss is the non-veg samosas at erstwhile Naaz on the West End corner at the entrance to Main Street. The good old Naaz and Kamling are two places I really miss.
See you then. It’s one in the afternoon and I’m hungry. I’m going out for lunch – guess where !
Right now I’m near Aundh in Pune and I’m busy discovering interesting eating places. The multicuisine Polka Dots at Parihar Chowk for it’s Roasts, Season’s and Sarjaa for family dining, rasoi looks promising, Spicers for Lamingtons and cakes et al, Babumoshai for roshogullas and lavang lata, Shiv Sagar for Pav Bhaji, and the usual Udipi fare, a place called Thomson which claims to serve Kerala cuisine which I’m planning to try but did not venture into as it was deserted (crowded ambience and busy rapid turnover are the leitmotif of a good eatery), Diwadkars for Bhel, Vada Pav, Misal and Mann Dairy for a delicious lassi.
I foodwalked in Aundh and was thoroughly disappointed. In Aundh there are all the usual fast food pizza and burger joints, some high falutin restaurants and a few nondescript commonplace characterless eateries serving run of the mill stuff; but sadly there are very few authentic value for money down-to-earth no nonsense Spartan eateries around here where I can relish genuine cuisine to my heart’s delight.
South Mumbai is a foodie’s delight! Sadly, Aundh is certainly not a foodie destination. Or is it? Anyone know any good value for money food eateries around here? Or do I have to go all the way to Pune City or Camp?
Dear fellow foodies. Please do send in your comments so I can keep updating.
Happy Eating !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Thursday, October 26, 2006
THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
A middle aged woman watches the sun set from the balcony of her tenth floor flat of one of those ubiquitous residential “townships” rapidly sprawling and proliferating around the once remote suburb of Aundh on the outskirts of the once beautiful and picturesque city of
“Good news,” his wife says exuberantly, giving him his customary cup of tea.
“What?” the husband asks nonchalantly, carefully pouring the precise amount of tea from the cup into the saucer and lifting the saucer to his lips to enjoy his tea in his usual habitual manner.
“Nalini is pregnant,” the wife exults.
“At long last! I’m so glad she found time from her busy schedule,” the husband comments acerbically and noisily sips his tea in his customary style.
“Don’t be sarcastic. She’s a career woman. Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course I’m happy. I’m over 50 now – it’s high time I became a grandfather.”
“I’ll have to go?”
“Where?”
“For her delivery.”
“To
“Yes. Her due date is sometime in November. I better go as early as possible, maybe in September. Poor thing, it’s her first child. You better get the visas and all ready well in time. Nalini wants me to stay for at least three-four months after her delivery.”
“Three-four months after her delivery? So you’ll be away for nearly six months.”
“Yes. I’m her mother and I have to be there to help her. It’s her first delivery. And that too in
“What about me?”
“You also come and help out.”
“I won’t get six months’ leave.”
“Come for a month. To see the baby. In December.”
“I’ll see. But I don’t like it there. It’s too cold.”
“Then stay here.”
“I wish we hadn’t shifted from Sadashiv Peth.”
“Why? Isn’t this lovely apartment better than those two horrible rented rooms we had? And it’s all thanks to Nalini.”
“I know. I know. Don’t rub it in. But sometimes I wish we hadn’t pushed her into IT. We should have let her study arts, history, literature – whatever she wanted to.”
“And it would have been difficult to find a decent boy for her and she would be languishing like an ordinary housewife with no future; slogging away throughout her life like me.”
“And we would be still staying in the heart of the city and not in the wilderness out here. And you wouldn’t have to go all the way to
“Don’t change the topic.”
“I’m not,” says the husband firmly. “You are not going for Nalini’s delivery to
“But why? She is sending the ticket.”
“It’s not the money. The fact is I don’t want to stay all alone at this age; it’s difficult. And in this godforsaken place full of snobs I don’t even have any friends.”
“Try to understand. I have to be there. It’s her first delivery.”
“Tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t American women have babies?”
“Yes. Of course they do.”
“And do they always have their mothers around pampering them during their deliveries? And then mollycoddling their babies for the next few months, maybe even a year?”
“I don’t know,” she said evading an answer, “for them it’s different.”
“Different?”
“Our kobra girls are najuk.”
“Najuk?”
“Delicate. Fragile.”
“Nonsense. They are as tough as any one else. It’s all in the mind. It’s only our mindset that’s different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thousands of women who have migrated from all over the world are delivering babies in
“Don’t argue with me. It’s our culture, tradition. A daughter’s first delivery is her mother’s responsibility.”
“Culture? Tradition? What nonsense! It’s not culture. It’s attitude! Our people may have physically migrated to
“Please stop your lecturing. I’m fed up of hearing…” the wife pleads.
The husband continues as if he hasn’t heard her, “What they require is attitudinal change and to stop their double standards. Nonsense! Nobody forced them to go to
“Please. Please. Please. Enough! I beg of you. Don’t argue. Just let me go.”
“No. I can’t stay alone for six months. Why should I?”
“Try to understand. I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s our only daughter’s first delivery. I have to be there.”
“Okay. Tell her to come here.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Here. We’ll do her delivery right here in Pune. We’ll go to the best maternity hospital and then you can keep her here as long as you want. She’ll be comfortable, the weather will be good and you can pamper her and her baby to your heart’s content.”
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘No’? You went to your mother’s place for your deliveries isn’t it? And came back after the babies were more than three months old.”
“That was different. I wasn’t working.”
“Oh. It’s about her job is it? I’m sure they have maternity leave out there. She can take a break. And if she wants to go back early we’ll look after the kid for a couple of months and then I’ll take leave and we’ll both go and drop him there.”
The wife says nothing.
“Give me the phone. I’ll ring her up and tell her to come here as early as possible. I’ll convince her she will be more comfortable here,” the husband says.
“I’ve already spoken to her,” the wife says.
“And?”
“She wants the baby to be born there. Something about citizenship.”
“So that’s it,” the husband says, “She wants the best of both worlds, isn’t it?”
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://foodiekarve.sulekha.com
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
