Fiction by Vikram Karve

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/09/the-visitor-fiction-short-story.htm

BLOG CAMP PUNE

BLOG CAMP PUNE




We had a lovely time at the Pune Blog Camp yesterday [Saturday 16th June 2007] at the Symbiosis Center for IT in the Hinjewadi IT Park. The venue was marvelous – hats off to the “unorganizers’ for choosing such an apt venue. Being my first visit to SCIT I was really impressed by this excellent academic facility created by Symbiosis.



After introduction there was coffee followed by presentations in two threads. Among the thread I attended, I liked the presentations by the Sulekha Team and the lecture by Melody on the Negatives of the Blogosphere.



Mukundan brought out the various technological and user features of Sulekha emphasizing the distinctive niche it has carved for itself among Indians worldwide. Sudhir Syal highlighted the various blogger-oriented initiatives like BLOGPRINT and tie up with publishers to compile short stories from blogs into Sulekha anthologies, which I am sure, will be an inspiration and fulfilling reward to bloggers to see their creative efforts in print. We were delighted to meet the Sulekha Team in person and really enjoyed interacting with them, and hope Pune will soon be a featured city like Mumbai, Chennai, Delhi, Kolkata, Hyderabad and Bangalore.



Melody’s engrossing talk embellished with case studies on Flames was an eye-opener, generated a lot of interaction and was especially pertinent to the novice bloggers.



Illuminating interactions, wonderful venue, delicious lunch, friendly youthful ambiance – a superb Blog Camp. Waiting for the next one and another gorgeous T-Shirt to cherish!







VIKRAM KARVE




http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com



vikramkarve@sify.com



vikramkarve@hotmail.com

Mumbai Heritage - Reay Road Railway Station

A LITTLE KNOWN HERITAGE STRUCTURE OF MUMBAI:
REAY ROAD RAILWAY STATION – THE CUTEST SUBURBAN RAILWAY STATION IN MUMBAI
by
VIKRAM KARVE

A few days ago, on my way to the Lal Bahadur Shastri Nautical College (LBS CAMSAR) at Hay Bunder in Mumbai, I decided to go by train and caught a harbour branch local at CST Mumbai, and crossing Masjid, Sandhurst Road and Dockyard Road stations, got down at Reay Road. Walking towards the exit I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty of the station building, which stood like a sentinel above the railway lines passing through beneath it, an elegant clock in the centre. Many Mariners, in their younger days, would have passed through its portals without even giving it a second look. It’s the cutest and most petite railway station I have ever seen. Let me tell you about it.

Did you know that Reay Road Railway Station, a prime landmark of Mumbai, is a 19th Century Heritage Grade I structure? Surely you knew CST (VT/ Bori Bunder) and Churchgate were Heritage Buildings, but did you even imagine in your wildest thoughts that Reay Road was an equally prestigious one embodying excellence in architectural style, design, building technology and material usage!

Reay Road railway station, on the harbour branch railway line of the Central Railway, rises to the top of a road bridge whose span bestrides and overlaps the railway track underneath. The railway tracks tunnel through an arch on the southern side. The station superstructure, constructed of stone, atop the arch, has in its center a majestic clock overlooking the platforms and tracks as if keeping a benevolent and watchful eye on the goings on below. It is an elegant and unique example in compressed space utilization, a masterpiece - a true work of art. I have not seen a railway station like Reay Road anywhere else.

I think Reay Road is the only Heritage Railway Station on Mumbai’s Harbour line. The other heritage stations on Mumbai’s suburban railway include Byculla in the Central railway and Bandra on the Western railway.

The next time you are in Mumbai, catch a harbour local and get down at Reay Road. Stand aside and let the commuters rush away; and then look towards the southern side and marvel at the adorable and captivating heritage masterpiece. And do let me know how you felt!

VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

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

QUIT SMOKING by VIKRAM KARVE

HOW I QUIT SMOKING

by

VIKRAM KARVE





I do not remember the precise moment I started smoking. Maybe it was sometime in college, in the seventies, when egged on by my friends I had my first puff. Just for the heck of it.

But what I do remember is the precise moment when I decided to stop smoking – a defining moment of my life.

A friend of mine came to my home in Mumbai late at night from the airport, to spend the night and catch next morning’s early train to Pune. It was late, I was tired after a hard day at work, so I gave him a cup of coffee and hit the sack and crashed out.

Suddenly someone was waking me up from my deep slumber – it was my friend asking for cigarettes.
“There’s a pack on the writing table,” I told him.
“It’s empty,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll get one in the morning,” I said.
“I need a smoke now. I’ll go out and get some,” he said.
I looked at him through my sleepy eyes and said, “Go to sleep. It’s late – there won’t be any shops open now.”
“There must be someplace. Please,” he said desperately, “I haven’t had a smoke since I left Delhi. It’s been four hours. I’m dying to have a cigarette. Just one. I can’t sleep if I don’t get a smoke.”
Seeing his desperate craving, I had no option but to drive out with him in search of cigarettes at the unearthly hour.

Later, lying in bed, I thought about it. Poor chap. We had probably started smoking at the same time. If this could happen to him it could happen to me too if I didn’t wake up. He had become an addict. I didn’t want to become one. There was only one way. Stop smoking. Yes, I had to quit smoking. And I did it. I quit smoking. It’s been three years now, and I know I shall never smoke again. Let me tell you how I quit smoking. Maybe someone out there may benefit from my experience.

The first step towards quitting smoking is to learn how to enjoy smoking. Seems absurd - a paradox - isn’t it? But that’s what I did and I’ll tell you all about it. I realized that in order to fully learn how to enjoy smoking one must first know the art of smoking. I got my clue from a teaching story as I reflected upon it carrying it my mind for a long time until I fathomed the story’s inner depth and meaning.

A seeker asks the master, “Can I smoke while meditating?”
“No,” scolds the master angrily.
Another seeker then asks, “Can I meditate while smoking?”
“Yes,” says the master knowingly realizing that this seeker is on the path to enlightenment.

This is the key, the first step – if you really want to stop smoking. First learn to meditate while smoking. Here is how I did it.

One evening, I take one cigarette, just one, and walk down to Marine Drive and sit down on the parapet in the cool sea breeze watching the sun being swallowed up by the Arabian Sea, crimson-yellow petals being thrown high up in the distant sky gradually devoured by the enveloping twilight. Soon it is dark, quiet and tranquil and I feel calm and relaxed.
I take out the cigarette from my pocket and hold it in front of me, look at it lovingly and close my eyes. You must close your eyes – it accentuates your other senses, makes you more conscious of what’s going on inside you. I hold the cigarette near my nose and breathe in the rich aroma of the tobacco, gently moving the cigarette as I take deep breaths, savoring the sweet fragrance of the tobacco tinged with the fresh scent of the paper and filter, until my olfactory system is truly and fully satiated.

I then put the filter between my lips, taste it and suck in air deeply through the unlighted cigarette. It feels good. I then open my eyes, light the cigarette, close my eyes, get ready and take a deep drag, focusing on my breath as I inhale, allowing the smoke to permeate deep within me, infusing a sensation I cannot describe, and watching carefully with my inner eye as I exhale - slow, long and relaxing.

Is my system being energized or depleted – I do not know – but I continue my unhurried meditative smoking, eyes gently closed, my inner senses fully conscious, aware, observing attentively, till the cigarette is over. I open my eyes, come out of my trance and instinctively I gulp in a huge amount of the fresh sea breeze and rinse my lungs and system.

As I walk back I decide that this is how I shall smoke each and every cigarette from now on – meditative smoking – the only way I shall smoke.

Most of us “smokers” haven’t learnt how to enjoy a smoke. We keep puffing away every waking moment of their lives without even noticing it. You grab a quick smoke in a hurry, you smoke when you are bored, you smoke while talking, while working, while doing something - smoking and multitasking: You smoke unconsciously, cigarette after cigarette, without even realizing it. Is it worth it? Why smoke if you don’t enjoy it?

I decide. Whenever I feel like smoking I shall stop everything and prepare myself for a meditative smoke. Go to some quiet place where I can sit undisturbed, alone. Yes I must be alone. Meditative smoking is a solitary activity. And I shall only smoke – no multitasking. No more smoking with friends, with tea or coffee, no more smoking in the office feeling a guilt conscience that non-smokers don’t like it or at home with my wife nagging me, no more hurried puffs, no more mindless unconscious smoking. Only meditative, mindful, conscious smoking in glorious solitude, maintaining inner calm and tranquility, and total awareness.

I follow this religiously and soon I am smoking only one cigarette a day – every evening, at sunset, just as I described it. For me smoking is a special occasion requiring solitude and a congenial ambience and if I cannot create the right atmosphere, both internally and externally, I shall not smoke.

When you have mastered something it’s time to let go and move on to something new. One day I feel I have mastered the art of smoking, derived all the enjoyment possible and reached a state of contentment and satiety. It’s time to let go. At sunset I go to my favourite place on Marine Drive, enjoy my final meditative smoke and toss the cigarette butt into the sea.

It’s been more than three years now and I haven’t had a smoke nor have I ever felt the urge to smoke. I know I will never smoke again – I have quit smoking forever.

Quitting is easy. You must ensure you don’t start smoking again. You have to break the habit forever. For this it’s best to use a technique like Force Field Analysis which I have described in my article on How to Quit Drinking [link below]:

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/03/do-you-want-to-quit-drinking.htm


And if you are worried about withdrawal symptoms, read what happened on the day after I quit smoking:

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/03/the-after-i-quit-smoking-2.htm

Dear Smokers and Drinkers who want to quit. Why don’t you try these techniques and tell me if they worked for you.

And Dear Reader, please comment and send me your feedback.



VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

vikramkarve@hotmail.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

Healthy Dating

“HEALTHY” DATING

by

VIKRAM KARVE




She stands in front of the full-length mirror and looks at herself. She cringes a bit for she does not like what she sees.

The jeans make her look fat. And the tight top – it’s all wrong!

So she wears a loose dress – Churidar, Kurta and Dupatta – to hide her bulges.

She looks at her new high-heels – should she? They’ll make her look tall, less fat. No. Not today.

Now it’s got to be walking shoes. A brisk invigorating walk from Chowpatty to Churchgate breathing the fresh evening sea breeze on Marine Drive is what she needs to cheer her up.

She stands on the weighing machine at Churchgate station and, with a tremor of trepidation, puts in the coin. Lights flash. Out comes the ticket. She looks at it. Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. No change – either in her weight or her fortune!

Her face falls. She’s trying so much; exercising, dieting. But it’s no use. She looks longingly at the Softy Ice Cream counter.

There is a smart young handsome man with two Ice Cream cones, one in each hand. He looks at her for that moment longer than necessary. She averts her eyes, but he walks up to her and says, “Hi! How are you?”

She looks at him confused. His face seems vaguely familiar.

“You are Sheena’s roommate, aren’t you?” he asks.

She remembers him. He’s Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.

“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.

She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback with the man’s audacity.

“Take it fast. It’ll melt,” he says.

She hesitates, confused.

“Come on. Don’t be shy. I know you love Ice Cream. Sheena told me.”

She takes the Ice Cream cone from his hands.

“I’m Mohan. I work in HR.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s walk,” he says, “and hey, eat your ice cream fast before it melts”.

They start walking. And as they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy ice cream off their cones.

“You walked all the way?” he asks.

“Yes,” she speaks for the first time.

“All alone?”

“Yes.”

“You come here everyday?”

“Yes.”

“All alone?”

“No. On other days we come together.”

“And today?”

“Sheena’s gone out.”

“For the office do at the disc?”

“Maybe.”

“And you?”

She’s furious. But she controls herself. No point getting on the wrong side of HR. She hastens her steps and says, “Okay. Bye. Time for me to go! And thanks for the Ice Cream.”

“No. No. Wait. Let’s have a Pizza over there,” he says pointing to the Pizzeria on Marine Drive by the sea.

“No. Please. I’ve got to go.”

“Come on. Don’t count your calories too much. And don’t weigh yourself every day.”

“What?” she goes red with embarrassment! This is too much! So he’s been stalking her - watching her every day. But inside, she secretly feels a flush of excitement.

“Yes. Don’t get obsessed. Like Sheena.”

“Sheena?”

“She keeps nagging me about my weight?”

“But you’re not fat!” she says.

“Then what would you say I am?” he asks.

“Let’s say you’re on the healthier side?”

“Healthier side? That’s great!” he says amused. “Then you too are on the healthier side, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. We both are on the healthier side.” She laughs. He laughs. They both laugh together. Healthy laughter!

They sit in the sea breeze enjoying their pizza. He is easy to talk to, she has much to say, and the words come tumbling out.

And so they enjoy a ‘healthy’ date. Relishing delicious Pizzas, and other lip smacking goodies, to their hearts’ content, capping the satiating repast with the heavenly ice creams at Rustom’s nearby.





“Where were you?” Sheena asks when she returns to their room in the working women’s hostel late at night.

“I had a date.”

“You? A date?” Sheena says disbelievingly

“Of course. At Churchgate.”

“A date at Churchgate? Wow! Things are looking up for you yaar!”

“Yes. And you Sheena? How was your date?”

“All ruined. That Mohan. He stood me up. Didn’t turn up at the disc and kept his mobile off.”

“Mohan?”

“You’ve met him.”

“Mohan? You’ve not introduced me to any Mohan.”

“Of course I have. He’s come here to pick me up so many times. He comes over to meet me at our office too. He works in HR.”

“Oh the guy from HR - the chap on the healthier side! That’s your darling Mohan, is it?”

“Darling? My foot! Bloody ditcher, that’s what he is - to hell with him!” Sheena says angrily and goes off to sleep.



But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium. And then they will go together for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive.

She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.

Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.





VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve


http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

Values

A SENSE OF VALUES

By

VIKRAM KARVE




Values are core beliefs which guide and motivate attitudes and behavior. When you value something you want it (or want it to happen). Values are relatively permanent desires. Values are answers to the “why” question. You keep on asking “why” questions until you reach a point where you no longer want something for the sake of something else. At this point you have arrived at a value.

Let’s take an example – I was once teaching a Post Graduate Professional course at a centre of excellence and I asked a student, “Why are you doing this course?”

“To gain qualifications,” he answered.

“Why do you want to gain qualifications?”

“To succeed in my career.”

“Why do you want to succeed in your career?”

“To reach the top.”

“Why do you want to reach the top?”

“To get power.”

“Why do want do you want power?”

“To control people,” he answered.

“Why do you want to control people?”

“I want to control people.”

“Why?”

“I like to control people.”

“Why?”

“Just for the sake of it – I like controlling people,” he said and further why’s elicited similar responses related to control. [Control for the sake of control!]

I realized that control was one of his values and maybe he was a future megalomaniac in the making!

The same line of questioning of persons undergoing higher education may reveal values like knowledge, money, status, standard of living, ambition, achievement, growth, reputation, excellence, fame.

Values are our subjective reactions to the world around us. They guide and mold our options and behavior. Values are developed early in life and are very resistant to change. Values develop out of our direct experiences with people who are important to us, particularly our parents. Values rise not out of what people tell us, but as a result how they behave toward us and others. Remember, there can’t be any “partial” values; for example: you cannot be 50% honest (half-honest) – either you are honest or you are not.

Are you doing you MBA? Keep asking yourself why you are doing it, and you will ultimately arrive at your value.

“Why are you doing your MBA?”

“To learn management.”

“Why do you want to learn management?”

“To get a good job in a top firm as a manager.”

“Why?”

“To make more money.”

“Why?”

“To have a high standard of living.”

The guy I was talking to re-iterated here since standard of living was his value but you can go on and on till you find your value. In one case I was surprised to find conformance as a prime value in a student of MBA – she was doing MBA because everyone else was doing it!

With the rise and predominance of the utility value of education, the most important criterion for ranking B-Schools is the pay-packet their students get and not other factors like the quality of faculty and infrastructure, academic achievements and ambience etc. That’s why there is a rush towards IT and Computer Science as compared to other more interesting and challenging branches of Engineering and Technology – money seems to be the cardinal value amongst students these days! Some do prefer the civil services even after completing their Engineering from premier institutions as, for them, things like status, service, power may be important values.

• Is a high salary important to you?
• Is it important for your work to involve interacting with people?
• Is it important for your work to make a contribution to society?
• Is having a prestigious job important for you?

It is most important for you to find out your own values (by the “why” method) to avoid value mismatch. Value mismatch is at the root cause of dilemmas in your life. A conflict between your personal and organizational values may result in ethical dilemmas, while value mismatch between two persons may sow discord and cause stress and turbulence in a relationship.

Your values are possibly the most important thing to consider when you're choosing an occupation. If you don't take your values into account when planning your career, there's a good chance you'll dislike your work and therefore not succeed in it. For example, someone who needs to have autonomy in his work would not be happy in a job where every action is decided by someone else.

It is important to distinguish between values, interests, personality, and skills:
• Values: the things that are important to you, like achievement, status, and autonomy
• Interests: what you enjoy doing, like reading, taking long walks, eating good food, hanging out with friends
• Personality: a person's individual traits, motivational drives, needs, and attitudes
• Skills: the activities you are good at, such as writing, computer programming, teaching
Of these, interests, skills and personality can be developed, but values are intrinsic core beliefs inherent within you which you must endeavor to discover by yourself.
Whether it is your work or relationships, value congruence is of paramount importance – your values must be in harmony for the relationship to tick. Value Dissonance due to mismatch between individual values and organizational values can cause great strain and trauma at the workplace.

Even within yourself, in order to avoid inner conflict there must be no confusion about your true values. Remember the saying of Mahatma Gandhi: Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.

Dear Reader, sit down in a quiet place all by yourself, introspect, ask yourself the “why” question and find out your own values. First know yourself. Then know others – try to ascertain their values (personal values and organizational values too!). Avoid value-mismatch and value-dissonance to the extent feasible. The mutual harmony in your values should determine your choice of work, activities, relationships, friends and partner.

Is freedom an important value for you? Will the job you are considering (or the person you want to marry) give you enough freedom?

Do you value leisure? Oh, yes! Leisure is not only an important value but also a determinant of character – If you want to know about a man find out how he spends his leisure! It’s true in your case too – If you had a day off what will you do? Read a book, write a story, go hiking outdoors, play your favorite sport, adventure sports, chat with friends, picnic, see a movie, eat your favorite cuisine in a restaurant, or cook it yourself, socialize in your club, spend the day at home with your family, or see TV at home, or just spend the day in glorious solitude enjoying quality time with yourself? Or would you rather not “waste” your leisure time and spend the day doing something “useful” connected with your work, career or advancement towards “achieving” your “goals”? How you spend your leisure reveals your values too!

Do you value humor, fun, pleasure, food, enjoyment, sex, family life, quality of life, status, money, success, fame, power, prestige, security, nature, loyalty, love, affection, independence, privacy, togetherness, tranquility, adventure, leadership, followership, competition, contentment, creativity – find out for yourself, and in others who you want to relate with – match and harmonize your values, and be happy and fulfilled in your work and your relationships.

Remember, at any important milestone in your life, when you have to make a vital decision, whether you are on the verge of selecting a job or a marriage partner – trust your sense of values!

In conclusion here is a quote from the German Philosopher Friedrich Hegel:

“A man who has work that suits him, and a wife whom he loves, has squared his accounts with life”





VIKRAM KARVE


http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com


http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve


vikramkarve@sify.com

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

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

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

The Early Life of Sherry Karve

THE EARLY LIFE OF SHERRY KARVE
[Sherry is a cute and loveable Doberman girl who lives near Aundh, Pune, India]

By

VIKRAM KARVE


Part 1

MY NAME IS SHERRY KARVE
(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









Part 2

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 care and treatment and also a hefty discount. 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 I? 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








Part 3


SHERRY AND HER “BABIES”

By

VIKRAM KARVE






“I think Sherry is pregnant!” my daughter says.



“What?” my wife screams aghast, in consternation.



We are all comfortably settled for our customary after-dinner lounge in our living room, sitting comfortably in our sofas watching TV, while Sherry sits majestically on her “throne” near the door, where she will soon curl up and go to sleep.



“Look at her belly, it’s swollen, and her teats,” my son says, walking up to her, turning her on her back, exposing her femininity.



“Don’t do that, “ my wife shouts at my son, “It looks disgusting!”



But I’ve had a look and I am concerned. Any father will be – if his ten month old girl gets pregnant! Doesn’t matter even if the ten month old girl is my pet Doberman Sherry. She’s just a baby. So I too walk across, examine her thoroughly, and hope that it is just not possible. She’s just finished her first heat during which I had guarded her zealously, keeping her under my eagle eye at all times.



“Look, Sherry is digging a hole,” my daughter says next morning.



“So what’s new?” I say. “She’s been digging away to hide her bones so many times.”



“But she used to cover it up putting soil and mud with long sweeps of her nose once she hid the bone,” my daughter says. “Look at this hole she’s digging – it’s huge, and deep, and she’s going on and on!”



In the evening I notice that Sherry is still digging vigorously, throwing out mud, cement pieces and soil all over the place, and the hole is so big that she has almost disappeared inside and only her tail is visible.



“See, Sherry is building a nest?” my daughter says.



“Nest?” I ask.



“Yes. A nesting site! I read in the library today. She is getting her den ready to deliver her babies.”



“She’s going to deliver?” my wife panics.



“Please. Hold it. Relax,” I say. “Dogs deliver more than two months after mating; 63 days I think.”



“She’s mated? So early? ” My wife’s dog-lover friend, appearing from nowhere asks. She’s already booked Sherry’s pups, whenever they come.



“No. No,” I say. “It’s not possible. We had kept her strictly indoors during her heat. And whenever she went out, I kept her on a tight leash all the time.”



“Except once, when she disappeared for half an hour,” my daughter says.



“When?” I ask.



“That day. Remember? When you were desperately looking around for her all over the place!”



I glare at my daughter, but it’s too late.



“It’s all your fault. I told you to be careful. Must be that Sigmund. Lecherous rascal, I knew he would do mischief, the way he was hovering around desperately,” my wife says.



“Sigmund?” her friend asks.



“The Golden Retriever next door,” my wife answers.



“Hey, fantastic! A Golden Retriever and Doberman cross – just imagine how cute the pups will look! You must give me one,” the dog-lover friend is exultant.



“Please. Sherry is not pregnant,” I assert firmly, and go inside.



After some time, I call Sherry for her evening walk, but she is nowhere to be seen, so I look around, and then towards the hole she has dug, and there she is, ensconced snugly deep in her “nest”, only her cute black nose and two shiny brown eyes visible!



She comes out of her “nest” and I look inside – it’s quite huge, and deep, T-shaped, so she can comfortable sit inside. And Sherry – she’s not behaving like her usual self whenever I call her for her walk, jumping, prancing, cavorting, and vigorously shaking her lead in her mouth. In fact her demeanor is demure.



At night, I’m woken up from my deep sleep by a strange whining sound. I put on the light. It’s Sherry, holding her favorite yellow crab squeaky toy, looking restless, giving me a loving compassionate beckoning look. I get up from my bed, and she indicates I follow her, and she leads me to her sleeping place in the living room. I put on the light. Oh my God! Sherry has collected all her soft toys and squeaky toys – the green frog, the red porcupine, the blue rabbit, the fluffy ball, and, of course, her favorite yellow crab – and she curls up around them and tries to mother them as if they were indeed her babies! It’s amusingly poignant to see her trying to nurse her inanimate “babies”.



The moment I extend my hand towards them she gives me a warning growl, so I just stroke the top of her head, and baby-talk her to sleep. The moment I try to leave, she whimpers, pleads, moans, and I have no choice but to spend the rest of the night caressing and comforting her as she snugly curls around and protectively mothers her “babies”.



We observe her with amusement as she moves restlessly, searching for her “babies”, collecting new “babies” like my socks, a tennis ball, a sneaker, carrying them to the nest she has built outside, and then back to her sleeping place inside, and to secluded corners of the house, trying to mother them. She’s changed, become more mature and lovable, acting like a true lady, and I wonder what’s happened to the naughty girl she was once. No more the playful bow poses of hers, now it’s just an affectionate tender look. No more the insatiable round-the-clock hunger, but a sophisticated food-faddiness I cannot comprehend – she wants to be pampered, fed lovingly. And her maternal instincts aroused, like a good mother she’s always protecting her “babies”.



My wife is anxious, “Look, she’s filling up. I think she’s got real pups in her womb. Let’s take her to the vet.”



The vet examines Sherry and says, “She’s not pregnant. It’s a ‘false pregnancy’. Pseudocyesis. ”



“False Pregnancy?” my wife asks.



“Her body, her mind thinks she is pregnant. All the hormones are present; only the puppies are missing.”



“What should we do?”



“Nothing much. It’s best to let it run its normal course and wear out. But if you want, I’ll give her a hormone injection.”



“No. No,” I say. “Let nature run its course.” Actually I’m enjoying Sherry’s false pregnancy – it’s been a delightful experience so far, and am curious for more amusing things to happen.



I’ve read somewhere that once a dog has had a false pregnancy she’s likely to have it again. No sweat! I’m waiting for her next false pregnancy, and then when she’s had enough “dry runs” we’ll go in for the real thing.



Meanwhile Sherry and we are going to savor every moment of this intriguing, exciting and fascinating experience with Sherry and her wonderful “Babies”.




To be continued…


VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com