Short Fiction - Click the link and read on my creative writing blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/10/marriage-on-the-rocks.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
LAST POST
In the early hours of the 22nd of September 2008, Pratap Dattatraya Joshi, breathed his last, and departed for his heavenly abode, at the Deenanath Mangeshkar Hospital in Pune.
Pratap Joshi was an epitome of simple living and high thinking. Born on the 6th of March 1932, he imbibed sterling values from his father, DP Joshi, a Teacher and Scout, a legend in his lifetime.
A product of the prestigious First Course of the National Defence Academy [or 1st JSW, as he liked to call it], Brigadier PD Joshi was certainly not the archetypal pompous hard-drinking handlebar-moustached high-falutin Colonel Blimp type of Officer. He was a simple, down-to-earth, Spartan, unassuming, dedicated, sincere, patriotic, scrupulously honest, erudite person possessing a golden heart filled with humility and compassion. Throughout his distinguished career spanning 37 years, and even thereafter, he spread happiness, benevolence and goodwill owing to his cheerful disposition, kind-hearted nature and inimitable sense of humour.
Forever young at heart, Pratap Joshi didn’t suffer from the Auld Lang Syne Complex. After retirement he didn’t live in the past, languishing and brooding about the “good old days”, but moved on with exceptional enthusiasm and childlike zeal to his new loves – music and social work.
Starting from the scratch, he studied classical music with sheer dedication, resolute grit and passionate zest for many years till he was bestowed with the prestigious post graduate degree of Sangeet Alankar. Then he taught music to one and all, free of cost, making special efforts to teach the needy and underprivileged.
Travelling extensively, and roughing it out in the heart of the mofussil, to rural and far flung regions, he made a significant social contribution to enhancing primary education in backward areas, as the Chief Trustee of the Natu Foundation Educational Trust. He eagerly contributed his expertise to Jnana Prabodhini and for improving the efficiency of Hospitals.
Pratap Joshi loved animals, especially dogs. He always had pet dogs, and showered his unconditional love on them and all the dogs that he came across in the neighbourhood, pet and stray. It was distressing to see Dolly desperately searching for him soon after he had gone away from us forever. We shall always remember the love with which he snuggled and cuddled Sherry, our Doberman girl, when she was a baby.
He had a genuine zest for living, and enjoyed every moment of his life, indulging himself in his favourite foods, movies, travel, music – anything he liked, he did it! He laughed, and made others laugh.
I first met Pratap Joshi in March 1982 and he left such a lasting impression on me that I became his fan ever since. He was my father-in-law, more like a loving father who I could count on to stand by me, advice and inspire me, in happiness and in adversity, and I shall forever cherish every moment I shared with him. My son, a seafarer, was his favourite grandchild, the apple of his eye. It was a pity he couldn’t be with his beloved grandfather during his last moments as he is sailing on the high seas. Such are the tragedies and travesties of life, and death.
We will miss you dearly “Daddy”. You lived your life to its fullest and loved all of us from the bottom of your heart. We are sure you will shower us with your blessings from your heavenly abode. You were a noble and virtuous man who always did good to everyone you met and wherever you went. May your Soul Rest in Peace.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
In the early hours of the 22nd of September 2008, Pratap Dattatraya Joshi, breathed his last, and departed for his heavenly abode, at the Deenanath Mangeshkar Hospital in Pune.
Pratap Joshi was an epitome of simple living and high thinking. Born on the 6th of March 1932, he imbibed sterling values from his father, DP Joshi, a Teacher and Scout, a legend in his lifetime.
A product of the prestigious First Course of the National Defence Academy [or 1st JSW, as he liked to call it], Brigadier PD Joshi was certainly not the archetypal pompous hard-drinking handlebar-moustached high-falutin Colonel Blimp type of Officer. He was a simple, down-to-earth, Spartan, unassuming, dedicated, sincere, patriotic, scrupulously honest, erudite person possessing a golden heart filled with humility and compassion. Throughout his distinguished career spanning 37 years, and even thereafter, he spread happiness, benevolence and goodwill owing to his cheerful disposition, kind-hearted nature and inimitable sense of humour.
Forever young at heart, Pratap Joshi didn’t suffer from the Auld Lang Syne Complex. After retirement he didn’t live in the past, languishing and brooding about the “good old days”, but moved on with exceptional enthusiasm and childlike zeal to his new loves – music and social work.
Starting from the scratch, he studied classical music with sheer dedication, resolute grit and passionate zest for many years till he was bestowed with the prestigious post graduate degree of Sangeet Alankar. Then he taught music to one and all, free of cost, making special efforts to teach the needy and underprivileged.
Travelling extensively, and roughing it out in the heart of the mofussil, to rural and far flung regions, he made a significant social contribution to enhancing primary education in backward areas, as the Chief Trustee of the Natu Foundation Educational Trust. He eagerly contributed his expertise to Jnana Prabodhini and for improving the efficiency of Hospitals.
Pratap Joshi loved animals, especially dogs. He always had pet dogs, and showered his unconditional love on them and all the dogs that he came across in the neighbourhood, pet and stray. It was distressing to see Dolly desperately searching for him soon after he had gone away from us forever. We shall always remember the love with which he snuggled and cuddled Sherry, our Doberman girl, when she was a baby.
He had a genuine zest for living, and enjoyed every moment of his life, indulging himself in his favourite foods, movies, travel, music – anything he liked, he did it! He laughed, and made others laugh.
I first met Pratap Joshi in March 1982 and he left such a lasting impression on me that I became his fan ever since. He was my father-in-law, more like a loving father who I could count on to stand by me, advice and inspire me, in happiness and in adversity, and I shall forever cherish every moment I shared with him. My son, a seafarer, was his favourite grandchild, the apple of his eye. It was a pity he couldn’t be with his beloved grandfather during his last moments as he is sailing on the high seas. Such are the tragedies and travesties of life, and death.
We will miss you dearly “Daddy”. You lived your life to its fullest and loved all of us from the bottom of your heart. We are sure you will shower us with your blessings from your heavenly abode. You were a noble and virtuous man who always did good to everyone you met and wherever you went. May your Soul Rest in Peace.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Thursday, May 01, 2008
happiness and pleasure
IT IS SIMPLE TO BE HAPPY
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The primary aim of philosophy and spirituality is to help ordinary people live a life of happiness, fulfillment and tranquility. Every day you ask yourself - How do I live a happy life? Is it simple to be happy? What is the art of happiness? Let us see what the Taoist philosopher Mingliaotse has to say: " The art of attaining happiness consists in keeping your pleasures mild."
You know that whenever pleasure is present you are happy - this is a fact that cannot be denied - for a pleasure is an enjoyable event or delightful emotion which is bound to make you happy, at least for that moment.
Highfalutin philosophers and spiritual gurus may prescribe various impracticable esoteric paths of renunciation, asceticism or sectarian precepts eschewing enjoyment and pleasure as the sine qua non of happiness, but the fact of the matter is that to the ordinary person happiness and pleasure are inextricably intertwined.
Discovering simple enduring pleasures which you can easily and regularly achieve, realize and enjoy in your day-to-day life will produce contentment, fulfillment and happiness.
No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but wanton pursuit of pleasures is counterproductive as it leads to over-indulgence and excesses which bring with them disturbances which are detrimental to our happiness and well-being.
In your search for happiness you indulge in extravagant parties, unrestrained consumption, thoughtless shopping, limitless spending, expensive entertainments and try to enjoy everything at once, instant gratification by over-indulgence in wining, dining and dancing, stretching yourself to the maximum limits possible; at first you enjoy yourself and feel happy but when you come to the point of satiety you begin to feel a sense of repulsion, and if you overdo yourself, next morning wake up sick and feeling miserable with a sense of sadness rather than happiness.
Grandiose, complicated, ostentatious, lavish, unrestrained and intemperate indulgences which you think will ostensibly make you happy , in actual fact, render you stressed-out, unhappy and cause you harm and misery in the long run.
There is no need to overdo things in order to be happy. Just keep your pleasures mild. Enjoying a simple, tasty and healthy meal with your loved one's and friends, or just sitting quietly and leisurely reading a good book, taking a walk enjoying melodious music, enjoying your work, leisure, hobbies are some mild pleasures which will make you happy and keep you healthy too.
It is simple to be happy. The first thing you must do is to introspect and list your most pleasurable activities - things that give you true joy, happiness and satisfaction - in all aspects of your life. Make your list as exhaustive as possible and from this list select those "mild" pleasures that you can enjoy every day or often. And then fit them into your daily routine.
See what happens. Experiment. Delete those "pleasures" that you thought would give you happiness but actually made you stressed-out - things you think would be satisfying but turn out to be unrewarding. Do not be hesitant to add new items to your list - you can always remove them if they fail to produce the desired results. Fine tune and religiously practice your list - and experience happiness every day.
This prescription of keeping your pleasures mild will enable you to structure your life in way where your happiness will be in your control and you will find greater joy in your life. It will be feasible and within your control to ensure that you enjoy these mild pleasures daily or at least fairly regularly and, with only so many hours during the day, these enjoyable events will begin to crowd out the neutral, unpleasant, and irrelevant activities in your daily life and make you feel fulfilled and happy.
Dear reader, start today and discover the art of happiness, the art of living.
And do let me know your experience - did keeping your pleasures mild make you happier?
Try to discover which are those mild pleasures that make you truly happy and joyful.
It is simple to be happy, isn't it?
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The primary aim of philosophy and spirituality is to help ordinary people live a life of happiness, fulfillment and tranquility. Every day you ask yourself - How do I live a happy life? Is it simple to be happy? What is the art of happiness? Let us see what the Taoist philosopher Mingliaotse has to say: " The art of attaining happiness consists in keeping your pleasures mild."
You know that whenever pleasure is present you are happy - this is a fact that cannot be denied - for a pleasure is an enjoyable event or delightful emotion which is bound to make you happy, at least for that moment.
Highfalutin philosophers and spiritual gurus may prescribe various impracticable esoteric paths of renunciation, asceticism or sectarian precepts eschewing enjoyment and pleasure as the sine qua non of happiness, but the fact of the matter is that to the ordinary person happiness and pleasure are inextricably intertwined.
Discovering simple enduring pleasures which you can easily and regularly achieve, realize and enjoy in your day-to-day life will produce contentment, fulfillment and happiness.
No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but wanton pursuit of pleasures is counterproductive as it leads to over-indulgence and excesses which bring with them disturbances which are detrimental to our happiness and well-being.
In your search for happiness you indulge in extravagant parties, unrestrained consumption, thoughtless shopping, limitless spending, expensive entertainments and try to enjoy everything at once, instant gratification by over-indulgence in wining, dining and dancing, stretching yourself to the maximum limits possible; at first you enjoy yourself and feel happy but when you come to the point of satiety you begin to feel a sense of repulsion, and if you overdo yourself, next morning wake up sick and feeling miserable with a sense of sadness rather than happiness.
Grandiose, complicated, ostentatious, lavish, unrestrained and intemperate indulgences which you think will ostensibly make you happy , in actual fact, render you stressed-out, unhappy and cause you harm and misery in the long run.
There is no need to overdo things in order to be happy. Just keep your pleasures mild. Enjoying a simple, tasty and healthy meal with your loved one's and friends, or just sitting quietly and leisurely reading a good book, taking a walk enjoying melodious music, enjoying your work, leisure, hobbies are some mild pleasures which will make you happy and keep you healthy too.
It is simple to be happy. The first thing you must do is to introspect and list your most pleasurable activities - things that give you true joy, happiness and satisfaction - in all aspects of your life. Make your list as exhaustive as possible and from this list select those "mild" pleasures that you can enjoy every day or often. And then fit them into your daily routine.
See what happens. Experiment. Delete those "pleasures" that you thought would give you happiness but actually made you stressed-out - things you think would be satisfying but turn out to be unrewarding. Do not be hesitant to add new items to your list - you can always remove them if they fail to produce the desired results. Fine tune and religiously practice your list - and experience happiness every day.
This prescription of keeping your pleasures mild will enable you to structure your life in way where your happiness will be in your control and you will find greater joy in your life. It will be feasible and within your control to ensure that you enjoy these mild pleasures daily or at least fairly regularly and, with only so many hours during the day, these enjoyable events will begin to crowd out the neutral, unpleasant, and irrelevant activities in your daily life and make you feel fulfilled and happy.
Dear reader, start today and discover the art of happiness, the art of living.
And do let me know your experience - did keeping your pleasures mild make you happier?
Try to discover which are those mild pleasures that make you truly happy and joyful.
It is simple to be happy, isn't it?
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Monday, February 18, 2008
Telecom and IT Reference Book
Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve
TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Tell me, what is a zombie? No, no! It’s not the witchcraft zombie I’m talking about, nor am I referring to those automaton nerds, lost cases, you see around you. Okay, I’ll give you a hint – this zombie has got something to do with IT. Still clueless?
Did you know that Zombie refers to hackers’ use of other people’s personal computers to either conceal their online activities or to launch attacks on other computers? Once a computer has been turned into a “zombie” it can be used as a repository for illegal software, become a clandestine meeting place for hackers to conduct secret meetings, be used to send pornographic or other undesirable e-mail or spam, serve as the launching point for a denial of service attack, and so on – all without the knowledge of the zombie computer’s owner. So don’t let your PC become a zombie.
Did you know all this? Well, I didn’t – till I read a marvellous book, a splendid Technical Thesaurus, called TECH TERMS. This book is packed with a wealth of knowledge comprising must-know terms and concepts for every Telecom and IT professionals worth her salt. This book encapsulates an essential list of Internet, IT, Telecom, Digital, Broadcasting, and Computing terms one needs to master to remain current through thorough understanding of state-of-the-art technology and concepts – a sine qua non for survival and success in the rapidly advancing world of Telecommunications and Information Technology.
Title: TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Author: Jeff Rutenbeck
Elsevier (2006) 280 pp
ISBN 13: 978-0-240-80757-7
The “tech terms” are arranged alphabetically and each term is assigned a “level” of 1, 2, or 3 indicating the degree to which a term or concept can be considered fundamental or foundational to a particular technological domain [level 1], those which require some understanding [level 2], and highly specialized or complicated concepts [level 3].
Cyberspace, Blog, Hacker, Byte, Broadband, iPod, Database are level 1 terms; Technobabble, TCP/IP, GPS, GSM, ADSL, ISDN, Cybersquatting, Wiki, Bluetooth, Blu-Ray, Ethernet, URL, Router, Zombie, Honeypot, WYSIWYG, Nanotechnology are level 2 terms, and terms and concepts like CDMA, NICAM, CPDP, XSS, DLL, ColdFusion are level 3 terms.
Hey, do you know the full form of URL? Or USB? Or FIFO? Or ISDN?
Why don’t you just go down to your nearest bookstore or library and get a copy of this book? TECH TERMS is an excellent reference book, a must-have for all IT Pros in today’s techno-centric world.
[Reviewed by VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE]
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Book Review by Vikram Karve - Tech Terms
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/02/a-must-read-reference-for-all-techies.htm
Tech Terms
Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve
TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Tell me, what is a zombie? No, no! It’s not the witchcraft zombie I’m talking about, nor am I referring to those automaton nerds, lost cases, you see around you. Okay, I’ll give you a hint – this zombie has got something to do with IT. Still clueless?
Did you know that Zombie refers to hackers’ use of other people’s personal computers to either conceal their online activities or to launch attacks on other computers? Once a computer has been turned into a “zombie” it can be used as a repository for illegal software, become a clandestine meeting place for hackers to conduct secret meetings, be used to send pornographic or other undesirable e-mail or spam, serve as the launching point for a denial of service attack, and so on – all without the knowledge of the zombie computer’s owner. So don’t let your PC become a zombie.
Did you know all this? Well, I didn’t – till I read a marvellous book, a splendid Technical Thesaurus, called TECH TERMS. This book is packed with a wealth of knowledge comprising must-know terms and concepts for every Telecom and IT professionals worth her salt. This book encapsulates an essential list of Internet, IT, Telecom, Digital, Broadcasting, and Computing terms one needs to master to remain current through thorough understanding of state-of-the-art technology and concepts – a sine qua non for survival and success in the rapidly advancing world of Telecommunications and Information Technology.
Title: TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Author: Jeff Rutenbeck
Elsevier (2006) 280 pp
ISBN 13: 978-0-240-80757-7
The “tech terms” are arranged alphabetically and each term is assigned a “level” of 1, 2, or 3 indicating the degree to which a term or concept can be considered fundamental or foundational to a particular technological domain [level 1], those which require some understanding [level 2], and highly specialized or complicated concepts [level 3].
Cyberspace, Blog, Hacker, Byte, Broadband, iPod, Database are level 1 terms; Technobabble, TCP/IP, GPS, GSM, ADSL, ISDN, Cybersquatting, Wiki, Bluetooth, Blu-Ray, Ethernet, URL, Router, Zombie, Honeypot, WYSIWYG, Nanotechnology are level 2 terms, and terms and concepts like CDMA, NICAM, CPDP, XSS, DLL, ColdFusion are level 3 terms.
Hey, do you know the full form of URL? Or USB? Or FIFO? Or ISDN?
Why don’t you just go down to your nearest bookstore or library and get a copy of this book?
TECH TERMS is an excellent reference book, a must-have for all IT Pros in today’s techno-centric world.
[Reviewed by VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE]
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Tell me, what is a zombie? No, no! It’s not the witchcraft zombie I’m talking about, nor am I referring to those automaton nerds, lost cases, you see around you. Okay, I’ll give you a hint – this zombie has got something to do with IT. Still clueless?
Did you know that Zombie refers to hackers’ use of other people’s personal computers to either conceal their online activities or to launch attacks on other computers? Once a computer has been turned into a “zombie” it can be used as a repository for illegal software, become a clandestine meeting place for hackers to conduct secret meetings, be used to send pornographic or other undesirable e-mail or spam, serve as the launching point for a denial of service attack, and so on – all without the knowledge of the zombie computer’s owner. So don’t let your PC become a zombie.
Did you know all this? Well, I didn’t – till I read a marvellous book, a splendid Technical Thesaurus, called TECH TERMS. This book is packed with a wealth of knowledge comprising must-know terms and concepts for every Telecom and IT professionals worth her salt. This book encapsulates an essential list of Internet, IT, Telecom, Digital, Broadcasting, and Computing terms one needs to master to remain current through thorough understanding of state-of-the-art technology and concepts – a sine qua non for survival and success in the rapidly advancing world of Telecommunications and Information Technology.
Title: TECH TERMS – What every Telecommunications and Digital Media Professional Should Know
Author: Jeff Rutenbeck
Elsevier (2006) 280 pp
ISBN 13: 978-0-240-80757-7
The “tech terms” are arranged alphabetically and each term is assigned a “level” of 1, 2, or 3 indicating the degree to which a term or concept can be considered fundamental or foundational to a particular technological domain [level 1], those which require some understanding [level 2], and highly specialized or complicated concepts [level 3].
Cyberspace, Blog, Hacker, Byte, Broadband, iPod, Database are level 1 terms; Technobabble, TCP/IP, GPS, GSM, ADSL, ISDN, Cybersquatting, Wiki, Bluetooth, Blu-Ray, Ethernet, URL, Router, Zombie, Honeypot, WYSIWYG, Nanotechnology are level 2 terms, and terms and concepts like CDMA, NICAM, CPDP, XSS, DLL, ColdFusion are level 3 terms.
Hey, do you know the full form of URL? Or USB? Or FIFO? Or ISDN?
Why don’t you just go down to your nearest bookstore or library and get a copy of this book?
TECH TERMS is an excellent reference book, a must-have for all IT Pros in today’s techno-centric world.
[Reviewed by VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE]
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Fiction by Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/09/the-visitor-fiction-short-story.htm
Monday, September 03, 2007
Dog - the best pet
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
[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
Monday, August 20, 2007
Monday Morning Reflection
Monday Morning Reflection
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Some things are under our control, others are not. Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and learned to distinguish between what you can and can't control that inner tranquility and outer effectiveness become possible.
…Epictetus
Thoughts play a very important role in your life, whereas your feelings can make or break you; also affecting the lives of others around you.
We often let our attitudes or feelings govern our lives. We let feelings drive our thoughts, not realizing that thoughts drive actions, actions produce results, and results in turn produce more feelings, causing a vicious circle which may ultimately lead to loss of self-control.
Feelings are not totally controllable, as many times feelings are produced by external circumstances beyond your control, and if negative feelings are allowed to drive our thoughts and actions, then undesirable results emanate.
These undesirable results in turn produce further not-so-good feelings, and the vicious cycle continues. This is true for any unpleasant or negative feelings, like anger, envy, disgust or hatred, which tend to drive our thoughts and actions, and quickly take charge of our lives.
An analysis of other options indicates that neither actions nor results are suitable alternative drivers since they also are not totally controllable and will not always be pleasing.
The best solution is to establish ‘thought’ as the driver is because it is controllable and we can get good results. Moreover there is a matter of choice. It is in our control to think good and interesting thoughts. The happiest person is he or she who thinks the most interesting and good thoughts.
The human mind cannot totally prevent poor quality thoughts from arising, but it can choose whether or not to dwell on them. The mind moves from dwelling on poor quality thoughts by selecting alternative beneficial or pleasant thoughts to focus on.
Choosing to be driven by thoughts and then controlling those thoughts allows the best possible results. Positive thoughts lead to good performance (action), which yields desirable results, which in turn produces good feelings.
Good feelings are conducive to better thoughts and progressively this cycle facilities a high degree of self-control and feeling of happiness.
When good thoughts are combined with good potential the results can be remarkable. Thus, the very basis of self-control is refusing to allow our feelings to control our responses and dwelling instead on good, pleasant, joy-producing positive thoughts.
Develop and apply your skill to control your thoughts. That’s the key to a happy and healthy life.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Some things are under our control, others are not. Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and learned to distinguish between what you can and can't control that inner tranquility and outer effectiveness become possible.
…Epictetus
Thoughts play a very important role in your life, whereas your feelings can make or break you; also affecting the lives of others around you.
We often let our attitudes or feelings govern our lives. We let feelings drive our thoughts, not realizing that thoughts drive actions, actions produce results, and results in turn produce more feelings, causing a vicious circle which may ultimately lead to loss of self-control.
Feelings are not totally controllable, as many times feelings are produced by external circumstances beyond your control, and if negative feelings are allowed to drive our thoughts and actions, then undesirable results emanate.
These undesirable results in turn produce further not-so-good feelings, and the vicious cycle continues. This is true for any unpleasant or negative feelings, like anger, envy, disgust or hatred, which tend to drive our thoughts and actions, and quickly take charge of our lives.
An analysis of other options indicates that neither actions nor results are suitable alternative drivers since they also are not totally controllable and will not always be pleasing.
The best solution is to establish ‘thought’ as the driver is because it is controllable and we can get good results. Moreover there is a matter of choice. It is in our control to think good and interesting thoughts. The happiest person is he or she who thinks the most interesting and good thoughts.
The human mind cannot totally prevent poor quality thoughts from arising, but it can choose whether or not to dwell on them. The mind moves from dwelling on poor quality thoughts by selecting alternative beneficial or pleasant thoughts to focus on.
Choosing to be driven by thoughts and then controlling those thoughts allows the best possible results. Positive thoughts lead to good performance (action), which yields desirable results, which in turn produces good feelings.
Good feelings are conducive to better thoughts and progressively this cycle facilities a high degree of self-control and feeling of happiness.
When good thoughts are combined with good potential the results can be remarkable. Thus, the very basis of self-control is refusing to allow our feelings to control our responses and dwelling instead on good, pleasant, joy-producing positive thoughts.
Develop and apply your skill to control your thoughts. That’s the key to a happy and healthy life.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Friday, July 20, 2007
THE WALLFLOWER - a love story
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 1]
“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.
My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her expression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.
“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.
I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.
She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”
“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”
“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”
“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.
“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.
“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside.
‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!
“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.
“No,” Manisha was firm.
“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”
But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.
“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.
“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.
“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked. “Come on Vijay,” she said derisively, coming close and looking directly into my eyes. “You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”
If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.
“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.
“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.”
But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.
“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”
When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”
“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.
That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.
In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.
Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.
Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left.
“Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”
“I don’t love her,” I said.
“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”
I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself. “You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”
I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”
But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”
“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”
The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.
“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.
“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.
I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.”
“Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.
I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:
Dear Manisha,
Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.
Yours sincerely,
Vijay
I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.
I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.
Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.
“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”
As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”
I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”
During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 2]
[continued from Part 1]
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.
I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.
At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…
Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.
“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.
“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.
“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”
“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.
No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.
I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.
Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.
As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”
Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”
“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.
“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.
The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.
I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!
My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.
I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 3]
[continued from part 2]
I locked myself in my office, sat down, calmed myself with a glass of water, took out the two envelopes and put them on the table in front of me. My unposted letter to Manisha would now have to wait – I thanked my stars that some mysterious hidden restraining force had stopped me from posting it every time I tried to.
I picked up Manisha’s envelope addressed to Avinash Gokhale. It was sheer serendipity that I happened to be at the reception when the courier arrived – otherwise I would have never known.
I looked at the envelope. The whole thing was incredulous. Why on earth should Manisha write to Avinash Gokhale? What was the connection? How did she know Gokhale? What had she written to him?
Had my simpleton mother blurted out something to her – told Manisha or her parents what I’d said – that I didn’t want to marry her? My mind went haywire with strange thoughts. Revenge! Yes, revenge. Stung by my betrayal, Manisha had somehow found out the name of my boss, from Sanjiv or Swati most probably, and was out to ruin my career – wreck vengeance on me for ditching her. Written to Avinash Gokhale what a jerk I was. These things mattered in my company. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a tremor of trepidation. I suddenly realized that I had to swiftly interrupt this pernicious line of thinking and insidious train of thoughts.
No, No! It was just not possible. No chance. Manisha was not the vindictive type. She would never do such a thing. Especially to me. She always loved me so much. And I was sure my mother would not have been so indiscreet and would have kept our conversation to herself.
But then anything is possible. I couldn’t take any chances. Dying with curiosity I desperately felt like tearing open the envelope and reading the letter. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was simple. I would open the letter in the privacy of my house. Steam-open the envelope very carefully so no one would even discern. Then I would read it and accordingly decide the further course of action.
I wondered why Manisha had sent this letter so indiscreetly to the office address with her name and address written so blatantly. Was it on purpose? She could have spoken privately to Gokhale, or even e-mailed him. Why this bold as brass missive? Was it on purpose? She wanted me to know…No. No. It was too bizarre!
I had an impulse to call up Manisha then and there and get it over with once and for all, but I stopped myself. I had to know first what she had written in that letter before I could do anything.
The suspense was killing. I felt restless and uneasy. When I feel tense I go for a long walk. That’s what I did. I went for a long walk around my entire office, each department, making pretence of MBWA [Management By Walking Around]. When I returned to my office it was four, still an hour to go. The next hour was the longest hour of my life.
The moment it was five, I rushed out of my office. The moment I opened the door I ran bang into the receptionist. “Mr. Joshi, Sir. That letter for Mr. Gokhale – you want me to give it to his PA?”
“No. No. I’ll give to him personally,” I said feeling the envelope in my coat pocket.
She gave me a curious questioning look so I hastily said, “Don’t worry, I’ve locked it carefully in my drawer,” and hurriedly walked away.
I rushed home to my apartment. I put some water in a pot to boil and then carefully held the envelope over it. I had to steam it open very meticulously and delicately – no tell tale signs.
Soon I had Manisha letter in my hands.
Dear Avinash… she began. Oh … great… Dear Avinash indeed! Already on first name terms – Thank God for small mercies it wasn’t Darling Avinash , Sweetie-pie or something more mushy!
[to be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 4]
[Continued from part 3]
Dear Avinash,
The suddenness with which you popped the question left me so dumbfounded that I am still recovering from the shock. Shock? Maybe that’s the wrong word, but the swiftness of your proposal, out of the blue, on our very first date – well I am a simple girl and it really left me dazed.
You called once. I didn’t answer. You didn’t call again. I really appreciate that. That was very gentlemanly of you.
You sent me an e-mail. Explaining your feelings. Apologizing for what you did at the spur of the moment. Said sorry for having hurt my feelings. Please don’t say sorry. You haven’t hurt my feelings at all. Maybe outwardly I didn’t show it, but in fact, inside, I felt so good, so happy, that a suave man like you found a simple ordinary looking girl like me so attractive.
Avinash, please try to understand. I also feel the same way about you. I can’t exactly describe the emotions I experienced when we were together. Is it love? I don’t know. It’s the first time it’s happened to me that I’ve felt so attracted to someone. I really feel like being with you, forever, spending the rest of our lives together. Thanks for proposing to me, Avinash – I accept.
What I want to say now I don’t want to say over the phone, or e-mail, so I am writing this letter. I am writing this because I believe that there is no place for secrets between husband and wife. Please read it carefully and destroy it. For my sake. Please. Read what I have written, think about it carefully, and I’ll wait for your reply.
You know Vijay, don’t you? Vijay Joshi. Of course you do. He works with you in Delhi. You are his boss.
In fact, I came to Sanjiv and Swati’s party in Pune just to see what Vijay’s boss looked like. Of course, I’d also come to help out Swati, but I was more interested to know how Vijay is doing in his new job in Delhi and maybe say something good about him. But the thunderbolt struck and we ended saying sweet nothings to each other. I hope Swati didn’t notice, as she seemed the busy hostess most of the time, and I haven’t told her, or anyone, about our hush-hush dinner-date the next evening in that lovely romantic garden restaurant.
Now, let’s talk about Vijay. Vijay and me were neighbors ever since I remember. Our families are very very close, deeply bonded to each other. Vijay and I are the dearest of dearest childhood friends, inseparable buddies who grew up together. Vijay has always been my most intimate confidant. I have always told him everything. Except about you – about us. It’s the first time I have hidden something from Vijay. And I’m feeling so guilty about it.
Avinash, I really love Vijay. But not in that way. Vijay is my friend, yes; buddy, yes; even soul mate, yes; but I just can’t imagine Vijay as my lover. Like I can visualize you!
Now brace your heart, Avinash!
I am engaged to Vijay. And our wedding date has been fixed on the 30th of May. Everyone knows about it.
This was fixed long back by both our families. My marriage to Vijay – a foregone conclusion and implicit happy culmination of our friendship. I too was happy. Till I met you. Now it is different.
What do we do, Avinash?
I just can’t bear to tell Vijay myself. To him it will be a terrible betrayal, a stab in his back. I can’t break his heart. He will be devastated.
I don’t have the guts to tell my parents; or his, either. They will be shattered, the hurt very painful and relationships will be strained forever.
So what do we do, Avinash?
I have an idea. It may sound bizarre, but let’s give it a try. Why not make Vijay fall in love with someone else?
Avinash, why don’t you introduce Vijay to some nice girl out there? Someone smart and chic, like Swati. I think he likes girls like that – I’ve seen him stealing canny glances at Swati when he thought I wasn’t looking. Right now he is lonely, vulnerable, and I am sure you there are many lovely, mod, savvy, attractive women out there in Delhi who are also lonely and vulnerable. You’ve just got to match them and hope for the best.
Avinash, try to understand. I want Vijay to call off our engagement. I want him to “break” my heart. It will be better that way, isn’t it? For me, for you, and for all of us.
Avinash. Am I asking too much of you? You like the idea, or is it too weird? Or can you think of anything better?
I am waiting for your reply. Please send me e-mails only. Don’t ring up or write – we have to very careful of hidden ears and curious eyes.
And remember to destroy this letter right now.
Yours lovingly,
Manisha.
[To be continued?]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 5]
I read the letter once again, slowly, carefully, word by word, till the last line – “And remember to destroy this letter right now”.
It was unbelievable – this bolt from the blue from Manisha. I laughed to myself. I thought I was smart, but it was Manisha who was playing the double game.
I put the letter on the table, closed my eyes, and tried to think clearly. It was crazy – a classy snob like Avinash Gokhale falling for a pedestrian Plain Jane like Manisha Patwardhan! Yes, Love is blind – Love is truly blind! Or, is it?
Instinctively I picked up my cell-phone and called Manisha.
“Hi, Vijay,” Manisha said, “what’s up?”
“Just thought of you, so called to say Hi,” I said.
“How’s life out there?”
“Good. I like Delhi. You’ll like it too – when you come here.”
“Come there?”
“You’re going to come here and stay with me in Delhi after we get married, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Manisha said smoothly – so smoothly, so slickly, so effortlessly, so glibly, without even the slightest demur or trace of dither, that, for a moment I was struck dumb.
“Hey, Vijay, what happened?” Manisha asked.
“Nothing,” I answered, “everything okay out there?”
“Oh, yes, I’d gone to your place this morning – everyone is fine.”
“Your parents?”
“My Mum and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay – just waiting for you to come. When are you coming to Pune?”
“I don’t know. There’s lots of work.”
“Come on, Vijay. Don’t tell me you can’t come for a day or two, at least on a weekend. I’m sure there’s not that much work that the heavens will fall if you are not there.”
“It’s not that – my boss here is a funny guy.”
“Funny Guy?”
“A painful killjoy called Avinash Gokhale,” I said, and listened carefully, but I couldn’t even detect even the slightest gasp or tremor in her voice as Manisha continued talking smoothly and glibly as ever, “Never mind, Vijay, you just work hard,” and then she effortlessly changed the subject to the latest happenings in Pune and started off with mushy ‘sweet nothings’ about how much she missed me.
Listening to her, for a moment, I thought the letter in front of me was a forgery, but then I knew Manisha’s handwriting too well. I was too flabbergasted to continue the conversation so I quickly said bye and kept the cell-phone on the table.
I never imagined Manisha could be so secretive, so mendacious. It was strange – how close one can be to a person and yet know nothing about her. And Avinash Gokhale? I worked with him every day, spent hours together, yet knew nothing about him, except that he was brilliant workaholic and a recluse – a most boring and private person who always kept to himself, never mixed around, never socialized or attended parties, a pain in the neck who everyone avoided and the only thing he ever talked was about work.
Made for each other – two secretive loners – Manisha Patwardhan and Avinash Gokhale.
But why was I so bothered? Good Luck to them! My problem was being solved. I had to just quietly wait and watch, do nothing, till my boss found some nice smart chic girl for me. Can anyone be luckier? Life was going to be exciting!
I carefully put Manisha’s letter back into the envelope and resealed it meticulously with a glue-stick. No one could have suspected that it had been steamed open. Now all I had to do was to quietly put it in the mail folder of Avinash Gokhale before he reached office on Monday morning.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the ring-tone of my cell-phone.
“Hello!” I said.
“Is that Mr. Joshi?” a sweet mellifluous feminine voice said.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here,” I said.
“I’m Vibha speaking.”
“Vibha?” I asked surprised. I didn’t know any Vibha.
“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Joshi, we haven’t met. I’m Vibha Gokhale. Avinash Gokhale’s wife.”
[ to be continued ]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 1]
“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.
My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her expression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.
“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.
I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.
She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”
“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”
“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”
“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.
“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.
“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside.
‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!
“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.
“No,” Manisha was firm.
“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”
But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.
“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.
“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.
“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked. “Come on Vijay,” she said derisively, coming close and looking directly into my eyes. “You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”
If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.
“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.
“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.”
But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.
“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”
When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”
“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.
That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.
In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.
Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.
Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left.
“Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”
“I don’t love her,” I said.
“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”
I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself. “You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”
I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”
But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”
“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”
The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.
“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.
“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.
I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.”
“Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.
I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:
Dear Manisha,
Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.
Yours sincerely,
Vijay
I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.
I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.
Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.
“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”
As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”
I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”
During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 2]
[continued from Part 1]
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.
I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.
At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…
Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.
“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.
“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.
“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”
“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.
No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.
I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.
Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.
As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”
Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”
“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.
“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.
The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.
I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!
My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.
I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 3]
[continued from part 2]
I locked myself in my office, sat down, calmed myself with a glass of water, took out the two envelopes and put them on the table in front of me. My unposted letter to Manisha would now have to wait – I thanked my stars that some mysterious hidden restraining force had stopped me from posting it every time I tried to.
I picked up Manisha’s envelope addressed to Avinash Gokhale. It was sheer serendipity that I happened to be at the reception when the courier arrived – otherwise I would have never known.
I looked at the envelope. The whole thing was incredulous. Why on earth should Manisha write to Avinash Gokhale? What was the connection? How did she know Gokhale? What had she written to him?
Had my simpleton mother blurted out something to her – told Manisha or her parents what I’d said – that I didn’t want to marry her? My mind went haywire with strange thoughts. Revenge! Yes, revenge. Stung by my betrayal, Manisha had somehow found out the name of my boss, from Sanjiv or Swati most probably, and was out to ruin my career – wreck vengeance on me for ditching her. Written to Avinash Gokhale what a jerk I was. These things mattered in my company. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a tremor of trepidation. I suddenly realized that I had to swiftly interrupt this pernicious line of thinking and insidious train of thoughts.
No, No! It was just not possible. No chance. Manisha was not the vindictive type. She would never do such a thing. Especially to me. She always loved me so much. And I was sure my mother would not have been so indiscreet and would have kept our conversation to herself.
But then anything is possible. I couldn’t take any chances. Dying with curiosity I desperately felt like tearing open the envelope and reading the letter. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was simple. I would open the letter in the privacy of my house. Steam-open the envelope very carefully so no one would even discern. Then I would read it and accordingly decide the further course of action.
I wondered why Manisha had sent this letter so indiscreetly to the office address with her name and address written so blatantly. Was it on purpose? She could have spoken privately to Gokhale, or even e-mailed him. Why this bold as brass missive? Was it on purpose? She wanted me to know…No. No. It was too bizarre!
I had an impulse to call up Manisha then and there and get it over with once and for all, but I stopped myself. I had to know first what she had written in that letter before I could do anything.
The suspense was killing. I felt restless and uneasy. When I feel tense I go for a long walk. That’s what I did. I went for a long walk around my entire office, each department, making pretence of MBWA [Management By Walking Around]. When I returned to my office it was four, still an hour to go. The next hour was the longest hour of my life.
The moment it was five, I rushed out of my office. The moment I opened the door I ran bang into the receptionist. “Mr. Joshi, Sir. That letter for Mr. Gokhale – you want me to give it to his PA?”
“No. No. I’ll give to him personally,” I said feeling the envelope in my coat pocket.
She gave me a curious questioning look so I hastily said, “Don’t worry, I’ve locked it carefully in my drawer,” and hurriedly walked away.
I rushed home to my apartment. I put some water in a pot to boil and then carefully held the envelope over it. I had to steam it open very meticulously and delicately – no tell tale signs.
Soon I had Manisha letter in my hands.
Dear Avinash… she began. Oh … great… Dear Avinash indeed! Already on first name terms – Thank God for small mercies it wasn’t Darling Avinash , Sweetie-pie or something more mushy!
[to be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 4]
[Continued from part 3]
Dear Avinash,
The suddenness with which you popped the question left me so dumbfounded that I am still recovering from the shock. Shock? Maybe that’s the wrong word, but the swiftness of your proposal, out of the blue, on our very first date – well I am a simple girl and it really left me dazed.
You called once. I didn’t answer. You didn’t call again. I really appreciate that. That was very gentlemanly of you.
You sent me an e-mail. Explaining your feelings. Apologizing for what you did at the spur of the moment. Said sorry for having hurt my feelings. Please don’t say sorry. You haven’t hurt my feelings at all. Maybe outwardly I didn’t show it, but in fact, inside, I felt so good, so happy, that a suave man like you found a simple ordinary looking girl like me so attractive.
Avinash, please try to understand. I also feel the same way about you. I can’t exactly describe the emotions I experienced when we were together. Is it love? I don’t know. It’s the first time it’s happened to me that I’ve felt so attracted to someone. I really feel like being with you, forever, spending the rest of our lives together. Thanks for proposing to me, Avinash – I accept.
What I want to say now I don’t want to say over the phone, or e-mail, so I am writing this letter. I am writing this because I believe that there is no place for secrets between husband and wife. Please read it carefully and destroy it. For my sake. Please. Read what I have written, think about it carefully, and I’ll wait for your reply.
You know Vijay, don’t you? Vijay Joshi. Of course you do. He works with you in Delhi. You are his boss.
In fact, I came to Sanjiv and Swati’s party in Pune just to see what Vijay’s boss looked like. Of course, I’d also come to help out Swati, but I was more interested to know how Vijay is doing in his new job in Delhi and maybe say something good about him. But the thunderbolt struck and we ended saying sweet nothings to each other. I hope Swati didn’t notice, as she seemed the busy hostess most of the time, and I haven’t told her, or anyone, about our hush-hush dinner-date the next evening in that lovely romantic garden restaurant.
Now, let’s talk about Vijay. Vijay and me were neighbors ever since I remember. Our families are very very close, deeply bonded to each other. Vijay and I are the dearest of dearest childhood friends, inseparable buddies who grew up together. Vijay has always been my most intimate confidant. I have always told him everything. Except about you – about us. It’s the first time I have hidden something from Vijay. And I’m feeling so guilty about it.
Avinash, I really love Vijay. But not in that way. Vijay is my friend, yes; buddy, yes; even soul mate, yes; but I just can’t imagine Vijay as my lover. Like I can visualize you!
Now brace your heart, Avinash!
I am engaged to Vijay. And our wedding date has been fixed on the 30th of May. Everyone knows about it.
This was fixed long back by both our families. My marriage to Vijay – a foregone conclusion and implicit happy culmination of our friendship. I too was happy. Till I met you. Now it is different.
What do we do, Avinash?
I just can’t bear to tell Vijay myself. To him it will be a terrible betrayal, a stab in his back. I can’t break his heart. He will be devastated.
I don’t have the guts to tell my parents; or his, either. They will be shattered, the hurt very painful and relationships will be strained forever.
So what do we do, Avinash?
I have an idea. It may sound bizarre, but let’s give it a try. Why not make Vijay fall in love with someone else?
Avinash, why don’t you introduce Vijay to some nice girl out there? Someone smart and chic, like Swati. I think he likes girls like that – I’ve seen him stealing canny glances at Swati when he thought I wasn’t looking. Right now he is lonely, vulnerable, and I am sure you there are many lovely, mod, savvy, attractive women out there in Delhi who are also lonely and vulnerable. You’ve just got to match them and hope for the best.
Avinash, try to understand. I want Vijay to call off our engagement. I want him to “break” my heart. It will be better that way, isn’t it? For me, for you, and for all of us.
Avinash. Am I asking too much of you? You like the idea, or is it too weird? Or can you think of anything better?
I am waiting for your reply. Please send me e-mails only. Don’t ring up or write – we have to very careful of hidden ears and curious eyes.
And remember to destroy this letter right now.
Yours lovingly,
Manisha.
[To be continued?]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 5]
I read the letter once again, slowly, carefully, word by word, till the last line – “And remember to destroy this letter right now”.
It was unbelievable – this bolt from the blue from Manisha. I laughed to myself. I thought I was smart, but it was Manisha who was playing the double game.
I put the letter on the table, closed my eyes, and tried to think clearly. It was crazy – a classy snob like Avinash Gokhale falling for a pedestrian Plain Jane like Manisha Patwardhan! Yes, Love is blind – Love is truly blind! Or, is it?
Instinctively I picked up my cell-phone and called Manisha.
“Hi, Vijay,” Manisha said, “what’s up?”
“Just thought of you, so called to say Hi,” I said.
“How’s life out there?”
“Good. I like Delhi. You’ll like it too – when you come here.”
“Come there?”
“You’re going to come here and stay with me in Delhi after we get married, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Manisha said smoothly – so smoothly, so slickly, so effortlessly, so glibly, without even the slightest demur or trace of dither, that, for a moment I was struck dumb.
“Hey, Vijay, what happened?” Manisha asked.
“Nothing,” I answered, “everything okay out there?”
“Oh, yes, I’d gone to your place this morning – everyone is fine.”
“Your parents?”
“My Mum and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay – just waiting for you to come. When are you coming to Pune?”
“I don’t know. There’s lots of work.”
“Come on, Vijay. Don’t tell me you can’t come for a day or two, at least on a weekend. I’m sure there’s not that much work that the heavens will fall if you are not there.”
“It’s not that – my boss here is a funny guy.”
“Funny Guy?”
“A painful killjoy called Avinash Gokhale,” I said, and listened carefully, but I couldn’t even detect even the slightest gasp or tremor in her voice as Manisha continued talking smoothly and glibly as ever, “Never mind, Vijay, you just work hard,” and then she effortlessly changed the subject to the latest happenings in Pune and started off with mushy ‘sweet nothings’ about how much she missed me.
Listening to her, for a moment, I thought the letter in front of me was a forgery, but then I knew Manisha’s handwriting too well. I was too flabbergasted to continue the conversation so I quickly said bye and kept the cell-phone on the table.
I never imagined Manisha could be so secretive, so mendacious. It was strange – how close one can be to a person and yet know nothing about her. And Avinash Gokhale? I worked with him every day, spent hours together, yet knew nothing about him, except that he was brilliant workaholic and a recluse – a most boring and private person who always kept to himself, never mixed around, never socialized or attended parties, a pain in the neck who everyone avoided and the only thing he ever talked was about work.
Made for each other – two secretive loners – Manisha Patwardhan and Avinash Gokhale.
But why was I so bothered? Good Luck to them! My problem was being solved. I had to just quietly wait and watch, do nothing, till my boss found some nice smart chic girl for me. Can anyone be luckier? Life was going to be exciting!
I carefully put Manisha’s letter back into the envelope and resealed it meticulously with a glue-stick. No one could have suspected that it had been steamed open. Now all I had to do was to quietly put it in the mail folder of Avinash Gokhale before he reached office on Monday morning.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the ring-tone of my cell-phone.
“Hello!” I said.
“Is that Mr. Joshi?” a sweet mellifluous feminine voice said.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here,” I said.
“I’m Vibha speaking.”
“Vibha?” I asked surprised. I didn’t know any Vibha.
“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Joshi, we haven’t met. I’m Vibha Gokhale. Avinash Gokhale’s wife.”
[ to be continued ]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Lovedale to Coonoor
DON’T DELVE TOO MUCH
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.
I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.
I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.
“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her expression starts changing.
Before she gets angry someone says, “It is Muthu, ma’am.”
Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.
I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”
Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.
“Must be a big binge this time,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?
I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”
We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.
“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.
“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.
“Whenever I’m there with him, he’s okay and controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got in this world - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much and looked so good last weekend,” Lata says.
Lata is my true friend who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.
“Something must have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”
“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.
“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the cruel world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.
Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.
I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs. Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”
“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.
“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a mathematics test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”
“Please Miss,” Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says, “Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”
I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.
Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.
Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.
“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”
As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s grotesque, terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.
I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.
I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.
We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.
“You’re in Rose house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.
Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer!
“Yes ma’am,” I answer.
“I too was in Rose house,” she says.
“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.
“1987,” she says.
I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.
We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of the lonely Lovedale railway station.
“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.
“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.
“Season ticket?” she asked surprised.
“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.
“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.
“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.
Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.
She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.
“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.
“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes”
“Often?”
“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.
She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father? What’s wrong with him? What’s he suffering from?”
I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure! At first I used to feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.
“He’s an alcoholic,” I say.
Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent?”
“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”
Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.
Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.
We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.
She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.
“You came today morning, ma’am?” I ask.
“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”
What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.
The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.
“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.
“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s been almost eighteen years. I am returning here the first time since I passed out,” she says.
“For some work? Children’s admission?”
“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.
“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”
“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”
“You work?” I ask.
“Yes. In an MNC.”
She must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?
I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?
She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.
Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.
The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.
The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.
The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.
A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.
“Not playing?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.
“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.
“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Coonoor.”
“Coonoor?”
“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”
“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”
The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”
“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.
The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.
Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.
I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”
“Is your father often like this?” she asks.
Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles and talking to even more troubled people like me makes her own troubles go away.
I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. Something disturbing! He must have got upset - really badly upset.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.
“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”
Her expression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.
“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”
“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.
I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.
“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure, thanks.”
Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes for the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.
Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.
Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.
She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.
The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.
Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.
As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those hail fellow – well met types of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.
I reach the clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.
“Yes?” a voice says from behind.
I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.
I tell her who I am. Her expression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.
I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.
I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.
“Papa,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.
“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.
We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.
“Can I take him?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”
“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”
“Yes,” I say.
Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.
We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.
“You’re hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.
Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.
“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.
But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.
The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.
As I give him a fifty-rupee note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”
I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.
Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.
“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.
“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.
“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.
“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.
“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”
“Custody? What are you talking?”
“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”
“Who?”
“Your birthmother.”
“Birthmother?”
“Yes.”
“But mummy?”
“Don’t delve too much.”
In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.
And opposite me is that hideous woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs. Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.
Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.
And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”
Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.
Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.
And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.
We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.
“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs. Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.
We wait. And gradually, a depressing and frightening darkness envelopes.
Mrs. Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs. Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.
After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”
“Don’t delve too much!” Papa says lovingly as he puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. And I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.
I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.
I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.
“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her expression starts changing.
Before she gets angry someone says, “It is Muthu, ma’am.”
Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.
I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”
Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.
“Must be a big binge this time,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?
I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”
We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.
“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.
“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.
“Whenever I’m there with him, he’s okay and controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got in this world - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much and looked so good last weekend,” Lata says.
Lata is my true friend who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.
“Something must have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”
“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.
“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the cruel world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.
Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.
I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs. Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”
“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.
“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a mathematics test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”
“Please Miss,” Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says, “Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”
I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.
Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.
Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.
“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”
As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s grotesque, terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.
I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.
I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.
We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.
“You’re in Rose house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.
Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer!
“Yes ma’am,” I answer.
“I too was in Rose house,” she says.
“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.
“1987,” she says.
I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.
We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of the lonely Lovedale railway station.
“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.
“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.
“Season ticket?” she asked surprised.
“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.
“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.
“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.
Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.
She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.
“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.
“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes”
“Often?”
“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.
She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father? What’s wrong with him? What’s he suffering from?”
I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure! At first I used to feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.
“He’s an alcoholic,” I say.
Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent?”
“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”
Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.
Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.
We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.
She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.
“You came today morning, ma’am?” I ask.
“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”
What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.
The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.
“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.
“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s been almost eighteen years. I am returning here the first time since I passed out,” she says.
“For some work? Children’s admission?”
“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.
“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”
“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”
“You work?” I ask.
“Yes. In an MNC.”
She must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?
I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?
She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.
Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.
The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.
The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.
The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.
A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.
“Not playing?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.
“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.
“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Coonoor.”
“Coonoor?”
“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”
“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”
The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”
“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.
The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.
Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.
I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”
“Is your father often like this?” she asks.
Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles and talking to even more troubled people like me makes her own troubles go away.
I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. Something disturbing! He must have got upset - really badly upset.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.
“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”
Her expression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.
“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”
“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.
I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.
“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure, thanks.”
Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes for the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.
Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.
Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.
She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.
The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.
Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.
As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those hail fellow – well met types of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.
I reach the clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.
“Yes?” a voice says from behind.
I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.
I tell her who I am. Her expression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.
I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.
I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.
“Papa,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.
“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.
We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.
“Can I take him?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”
“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”
“Yes,” I say.
Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.
We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.
“You’re hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.
Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.
“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.
But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.
The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.
As I give him a fifty-rupee note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”
I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.
Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.
“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.
“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.
“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.
“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.
“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”
“Custody? What are you talking?”
“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”
“Who?”
“Your birthmother.”
“Birthmother?”
“Yes.”
“But mummy?”
“Don’t delve too much.”
In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.
And opposite me is that hideous woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs. Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.
Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.
And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”
Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.
Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.
And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.
We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.
“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs. Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.
We wait. And gradually, a depressing and frightening darkness envelopes.
Mrs. Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs. Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.
After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”
“Don’t delve too much!” Papa says lovingly as he puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. And I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
MICE and MOTIVATION
MICE and MOTIVATION
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Numerous theories have been formulated, tomes and tomes written, and Management Gurus pontificate to their hearts’ content, on the subject of Motivation, but to put it simply, I feel that, in a nutshell, all the motivators, or motivating factors, can be encapsulated in the acronym “MICE”.
Let’s expand MICE – Money, Insecurity, Cause, Ego.
In today’s materialistic world Money is probably the primary motivating factor. Need I say more?
Fear and Insecurity have always been powerful motivators for ages. Though negative in nature, these are used quite often by many organizations and bosses.
Many idealistic persons are motivated for a Cause, ideology, belief, passion, love, ambition, or to realize one’s “life-mission”.
The role of Ego, pride, self-importance, self-respect [“izzat”] and self-actualization as a motivator is significant in some cases.
MICE and Motivation – they are inextricably linked, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, tell us what you feel?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Numerous theories have been formulated, tomes and tomes written, and Management Gurus pontificate to their hearts’ content, on the subject of Motivation, but to put it simply, I feel that, in a nutshell, all the motivators, or motivating factors, can be encapsulated in the acronym “MICE”.
Let’s expand MICE – Money, Insecurity, Cause, Ego.
In today’s materialistic world Money is probably the primary motivating factor. Need I say more?
Fear and Insecurity have always been powerful motivators for ages. Though negative in nature, these are used quite often by many organizations and bosses.
Many idealistic persons are motivated for a Cause, ideology, belief, passion, love, ambition, or to realize one’s “life-mission”.
The role of Ego, pride, self-importance, self-respect [“izzat”] and self-actualization as a motivator is significant in some cases.
MICE and Motivation – they are inextricably linked, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, tell us what you feel?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Sunday, July 01, 2007
FOOD
FOOD
Food is a basic necessity of man, not just a mere necessity but a desire, and, probably, there is no greater love than the love of food.
I am an avid Foodie, and not only do I love and relish eating good food, but I am fond of all aspects of food – reading, writing, watching about food. So when I chanced upon an appetizing anthology, of writings on Food, in my library I was indeed enticed. Dear Reader, and Fellow Foodie, let me tell you about it.
Title: FOOD An Oxford Anthology
Edited by: BRIGID ALLEN
Published by: Oxford University Press (1994)
ISBN 0-19-212327-0
The brief introduction elucidates that “The chief objects of this anthology are to satisfy curiosity (about what and how people ate, what they felt about food, how they celebrated with it, and how it varied from country to country and region to region), and to provide both pleasure and literary reflection.” The anthology comprises pieces of prose and poetry which explore attitudes, emotional and social resonances connected with food.
The anthology comprises six parts titled – People, Foodstuffs and Cooking, Eating at Home and Abroad, Lavishness, Austerity, and Food and Emotions – and each past contains a number of interesting sections on a variety of topics ranging from Food and Character, Eating Habits, Recipes, Parties and Ceremonial Food to explorations between Food and various emotions like Dreams, fantasy, Distress, Happiness, Sensuality, Love, and Sex.
“Food is a profound subject and one, incidentally, about which no writer lies,” writes Iris Murdoch (p 20) in the featured extract of The Sea, The Sea, in the chapter on Eating Habits, and continues, “I wonder whence I derived my felicitous gastronomic intelligence.” Appetizing descriptions of food experienced by travelers all over the world, including on board ships, are featured in the section on Eating at Home and Abroad. The pieces on India (reminiscent of the Raj including pieces by VS Naipaul and EM Forster) make entertaining reading as do the recipes in poetry form.
The meat of the book is the section titled “Lavishness” comprising writings on Ceremonial Food, Parties, Greed, Excess – and lest you get carried away and indulge yourself too much there immediately follows the chapter on “Austerity” which extols the virtues of Simple Food, Diets and Dieting and goes on to kill your appetite with nauseating stomach-churning prose and poems on Unpleasant Food.
I enjoyed the chapter on Food and Emotions. Here is a poem on Food and Happiness “TO A POOR OLD WOMAN” (p 388):
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her.
And what can I say on the concluding section of the anthology titled “Food, Sensuality, Love, and Sex”? Well, Dear Reader, why don’t you read it for yourself?
The dust jacket, with a decorative illustration of a vegetable market on the cover, introduces the Editor, Brigid Allen, as a cookery writer and historian educated at Oxford and London Universities and indeed she has compiled an appetizing, droll and enjoyable collection of writing on Food. A good book on food – nourishing reading for foodies and bibliophiles alike.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://vwkarve.wordpress.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Food is a basic necessity of man, not just a mere necessity but a desire, and, probably, there is no greater love than the love of food.
I am an avid Foodie, and not only do I love and relish eating good food, but I am fond of all aspects of food – reading, writing, watching about food. So when I chanced upon an appetizing anthology, of writings on Food, in my library I was indeed enticed. Dear Reader, and Fellow Foodie, let me tell you about it.
Title: FOOD An Oxford Anthology
Edited by: BRIGID ALLEN
Published by: Oxford University Press (1994)
ISBN 0-19-212327-0
The brief introduction elucidates that “The chief objects of this anthology are to satisfy curiosity (about what and how people ate, what they felt about food, how they celebrated with it, and how it varied from country to country and region to region), and to provide both pleasure and literary reflection.” The anthology comprises pieces of prose and poetry which explore attitudes, emotional and social resonances connected with food.
The anthology comprises six parts titled – People, Foodstuffs and Cooking, Eating at Home and Abroad, Lavishness, Austerity, and Food and Emotions – and each past contains a number of interesting sections on a variety of topics ranging from Food and Character, Eating Habits, Recipes, Parties and Ceremonial Food to explorations between Food and various emotions like Dreams, fantasy, Distress, Happiness, Sensuality, Love, and Sex.
“Food is a profound subject and one, incidentally, about which no writer lies,” writes Iris Murdoch (p 20) in the featured extract of The Sea, The Sea, in the chapter on Eating Habits, and continues, “I wonder whence I derived my felicitous gastronomic intelligence.” Appetizing descriptions of food experienced by travelers all over the world, including on board ships, are featured in the section on Eating at Home and Abroad. The pieces on India (reminiscent of the Raj including pieces by VS Naipaul and EM Forster) make entertaining reading as do the recipes in poetry form.
The meat of the book is the section titled “Lavishness” comprising writings on Ceremonial Food, Parties, Greed, Excess – and lest you get carried away and indulge yourself too much there immediately follows the chapter on “Austerity” which extols the virtues of Simple Food, Diets and Dieting and goes on to kill your appetite with nauseating stomach-churning prose and poems on Unpleasant Food.
I enjoyed the chapter on Food and Emotions. Here is a poem on Food and Happiness “TO A POOR OLD WOMAN” (p 388):
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her.
And what can I say on the concluding section of the anthology titled “Food, Sensuality, Love, and Sex”? Well, Dear Reader, why don’t you read it for yourself?
The dust jacket, with a decorative illustration of a vegetable market on the cover, introduces the Editor, Brigid Allen, as a cookery writer and historian educated at Oxford and London Universities and indeed she has compiled an appetizing, droll and enjoyable collection of writing on Food. A good book on food – nourishing reading for foodies and bibliophiles alike.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://vwkarve.wordpress.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
TV and the Trencherman
TV and the Trencherman
By
Vikram Karve
I try to masquerade as a connoisseur of good food, a gourmet, but in actual fact I am somewhat of a trencherman – a down to earth foodie with a hearty appetite who loves eating simple authentic earthy food. That’s why I prefer to prowl the streets and peep into kitchens in perpetual search of the real wholesome tasty stuff rather than wine and dine in high-falutin restaurants serving gourmet cuisine.
Right now, it’s raining cats and dogs, and confined indoors in this back of beyond outskirt of Pune, I’ve just finished watching “Zaika India” – a foodie programme hosted by Vinod Dua on NDTV India. The very sight of the Delhi’s delicious street food – seekh and boti kababs, nihari, biryani, stew and korma at Karim’s, phirnee and habshi mithai, prince paan and a glimpse of Moti Mahal not only brought back mouthwatering memories but also gave me immense vicarious epicurean delight. Last week Vinod Dua foodwalked the streets of Mumbai, starting with the sampling of kababs, nihari, meats and sweets like the incomparable aflatoon and heavy duty malpua near Minara Masjid on Mohammed Ali Road and ending up with the inimitable green chilli ice cream at Bachellor’s opposite Chowpatty.
I really enjoy watching Zaika India and am looking forward to more with great expectations. I only wish Vinod Dua slows down a bit and delves more deeply into the food.
As of now, my favourite foodie TV programme is “The Foodie” on Times Now TV. For a year or so now, Kunal Vijayakar has kept us enthralled by his gastronomic adventures all over India, even exploring into the inferiors and the mofussil areas in search of our glorious culinary heritage. He shows us the food being cooked, which enhances the enjoyment and learning experience, but it is the expressions of genuine passion on his face, as he devours the freshly cooked delights, that leave the foodies hungering for more. His episodes on Lucknow, Udipi, Kolkata, Amritsar, Punjab, Mumbai, Hyderabad, Kurseong, Darjeeling, and the recent one on Pondicherry,were truly mouthwateringly memorable. The ‘Tea’ dishes of Kurseong, Kababs of Lucknow, Prawn Palmyra (tadgola?) of Pondicherry, and Butter Chicken and Fish Amritsari of Amritsar were unforgettable. I wonder when his gastronomic adventures are going to take him to Bihar, East UP, Varanasi, Kolhapur, Vidharbha, Orissa, Coastal Andhra and many other such places yet to be explored by The Foodie.
I enjoyed the Kerala and Mumbai episodes of the recently started “Secret Kitchen” by Bikramjit on CNN IBN and wait in eager anticipation for what’s going to come up in this interesting out of the ordinary programme.
“A Matter of Taste” by Vir Sanghvi, on Travel and Living, has got the royal touch. Fine dining in royal style though he did hit the streets of Delhi researching ‘Indian-Chinese’ cuisine.
I loved “Good Food” on NDTV by the vivacious and lively Seema Chandra who gave us a peep into high society and celebrity kitchens. She too seems to be an ardent foodie and her face lights up as she relishes food. As a Foodie hostess she rightly displays more interest in the eating, rather than the cooking, of the delicious dishes. I couldn’t catch up with this programme of late – have they taken it off or have the timings changed?
And of course I watch all the lip smacking food shows like Planet Food, Floyd’s India, Bordain, Taste of India by Padmalakshmi, Madhur Jaffrey's show et al on Travel and Living and BBC, and Mejwani and Khavaiyya on the Marathi channels. And of course I never miss the pioneering “Khana Khazana” by Sanjeev Kapoor.
I love watching foodie programmes on TV.
The greatest love is the love of food [even if it is eaten vicariously!]
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
Vikram Karve
I try to masquerade as a connoisseur of good food, a gourmet, but in actual fact I am somewhat of a trencherman – a down to earth foodie with a hearty appetite who loves eating simple authentic earthy food. That’s why I prefer to prowl the streets and peep into kitchens in perpetual search of the real wholesome tasty stuff rather than wine and dine in high-falutin restaurants serving gourmet cuisine.
Right now, it’s raining cats and dogs, and confined indoors in this back of beyond outskirt of Pune, I’ve just finished watching “Zaika India” – a foodie programme hosted by Vinod Dua on NDTV India. The very sight of the Delhi’s delicious street food – seekh and boti kababs, nihari, biryani, stew and korma at Karim’s, phirnee and habshi mithai, prince paan and a glimpse of Moti Mahal not only brought back mouthwatering memories but also gave me immense vicarious epicurean delight. Last week Vinod Dua foodwalked the streets of Mumbai, starting with the sampling of kababs, nihari, meats and sweets like the incomparable aflatoon and heavy duty malpua near Minara Masjid on Mohammed Ali Road and ending up with the inimitable green chilli ice cream at Bachellor’s opposite Chowpatty.
I really enjoy watching Zaika India and am looking forward to more with great expectations. I only wish Vinod Dua slows down a bit and delves more deeply into the food.
As of now, my favourite foodie TV programme is “The Foodie” on Times Now TV. For a year or so now, Kunal Vijayakar has kept us enthralled by his gastronomic adventures all over India, even exploring into the inferiors and the mofussil areas in search of our glorious culinary heritage. He shows us the food being cooked, which enhances the enjoyment and learning experience, but it is the expressions of genuine passion on his face, as he devours the freshly cooked delights, that leave the foodies hungering for more. His episodes on Lucknow, Udipi, Kolkata, Amritsar, Punjab, Mumbai, Hyderabad, Kurseong, Darjeeling, and the recent one on Pondicherry,were truly mouthwateringly memorable. The ‘Tea’ dishes of Kurseong, Kababs of Lucknow, Prawn Palmyra (tadgola?) of Pondicherry, and Butter Chicken and Fish Amritsari of Amritsar were unforgettable. I wonder when his gastronomic adventures are going to take him to Bihar, East UP, Varanasi, Kolhapur, Vidharbha, Orissa, Coastal Andhra and many other such places yet to be explored by The Foodie.
I enjoyed the Kerala and Mumbai episodes of the recently started “Secret Kitchen” by Bikramjit on CNN IBN and wait in eager anticipation for what’s going to come up in this interesting out of the ordinary programme.
“A Matter of Taste” by Vir Sanghvi, on Travel and Living, has got the royal touch. Fine dining in royal style though he did hit the streets of Delhi researching ‘Indian-Chinese’ cuisine.
I loved “Good Food” on NDTV by the vivacious and lively Seema Chandra who gave us a peep into high society and celebrity kitchens. She too seems to be an ardent foodie and her face lights up as she relishes food. As a Foodie hostess she rightly displays more interest in the eating, rather than the cooking, of the delicious dishes. I couldn’t catch up with this programme of late – have they taken it off or have the timings changed?
And of course I watch all the lip smacking food shows like Planet Food, Floyd’s India, Bordain, Taste of India by Padmalakshmi, Madhur Jaffrey's show et al on Travel and Living and BBC, and Mejwani and Khavaiyya on the Marathi channels. And of course I never miss the pioneering “Khana Khazana” by Sanjeev Kapoor.
I love watching foodie programmes on TV.
The greatest love is the love of food [even if it is eaten vicariously!]
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Sunday, June 24, 2007
TV and the Trencherman
TV and the Trencherman
By
Vikram Karve
I try to masquerade as a connoisseur of good food, a gourmet, but in actual fact I am somewhat of a trencherman – a down to earth foodie with a hearty appetite who loves eating simple authentic earthy food. That’s why I prefer to prowl the streets and peep into kitchens in perpetual search of the real wholesome tasty stuff rather than wine and dine in high-falutin restaurants serving gourmet cuisine.
Right now, it’s raining cats and dogs, and confined indoors in this back of beyond outskirt of Pune, I’ve just finished watching “Zaika India” – a foodie programme hosted by Vinod Dua on NDTV India. The very sight of the Delhi’s delicious street food – seekh and boti kababs, nihari, biryani, stew and korma at Karim’s, phirnee and habshi mithai, prince paan and a glimpse of Moti Mahal not only brought back mouthwatering memories but also gave me immense vicarious epicurean delight. Last week Vinod Dua foodwalked the streets of Mumbai, starting with the sampling of kababs, nihari, meats and sweets like the incomparable aflatoon and heavy duty malpua near Minara Masjid on Mohammed Ali Road and ending up with the inimitable green chilli ice cream at Bachellor’s opposite Chowpatty.
I really enjoy watching Zaika India and am looking forward to more with great expectations. I only wish Vinod Dua slows down a bit and delves more deeply into the food.
As of now, my favourite foodie TV programme is “The Foodie” on Times Now TV. For a year or so now, Kunal Vijayakar has kept us enthralled by his gastronomic adventures all over India, even exploring into the inferiors and the mofussil areas in search of our glorious culinary heritage. He shows us the food being cooked, which enhances the enjoyment and learning experience, but it is the expressions of genuine passion on his face, as he devours the freshly cooked delights, that leave the foodies hungering for more. His episodes on Lucknow, Udipi, Kolkata, Amritsar, Punjab, Mumbai, Hyderabad, Kurseong, Darjeeling, and the recent one on Pondicherry,were truly mouthwateringly memorable. The ‘Tea’ dishes of Kurseong, Kababs of Lucknow, Prawn Palmyra (tadgola?) of Pondicherry, and Butter Chicken and Fish Amritsari of Amritsar were unforgettable. I wonder when his gastronomic adventures are going to take him to Bihar, East UP, Varanasi, Kolhapur, Vidharbha, Orissa, Coastal Andhra and many other such places yet to be explored by The Foodie.
I enjoyed the Kerala and Mumbai episodes of the recently started “Secret Kitchen” by Bikramjit on CNN IBN and wait in eager anticipation for what’s going to come up in this interesting out of the ordinary programme.
“A Matter of Taste” by Vir Sanghvi, on Travel and Living, has got the royal touch. Fine dining in royal style though he did hit the streets of Delhi researching ‘Indian-Chinese’ cuisine.
I loved “Good Food” on NDTV by the vivacious and lively Seema Chandra who gave us a peep into high society and celebrity kitchens. She too seems to be an ardent foodie and her face lights up as she relishes food. As a Foodie hostess she rightly displays more interest in the eating, rather than the cooking, of the delicious dishes. I couldn’t catch up with this programme of late – have they taken it off or have the timings changed?
And of course I watch all the lip smacking food shows like Planet Food, Floyd’s India, Bordain, Taste of India et al on Travel and Living and BBC, and Mejwani and Khavaiyya on the Marathi channels. And of course I never miss the pioneering “Khana Khazana” by Sanjeev Kapoor.
I love watching foodie programmes on TV.
The greatest love is the love of food [even if it is eaten vicariously!]
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
Vikram Karve
I try to masquerade as a connoisseur of good food, a gourmet, but in actual fact I am somewhat of a trencherman – a down to earth foodie with a hearty appetite who loves eating simple authentic earthy food. That’s why I prefer to prowl the streets and peep into kitchens in perpetual search of the real wholesome tasty stuff rather than wine and dine in high-falutin restaurants serving gourmet cuisine.
Right now, it’s raining cats and dogs, and confined indoors in this back of beyond outskirt of Pune, I’ve just finished watching “Zaika India” – a foodie programme hosted by Vinod Dua on NDTV India. The very sight of the Delhi’s delicious street food – seekh and boti kababs, nihari, biryani, stew and korma at Karim’s, phirnee and habshi mithai, prince paan and a glimpse of Moti Mahal not only brought back mouthwatering memories but also gave me immense vicarious epicurean delight. Last week Vinod Dua foodwalked the streets of Mumbai, starting with the sampling of kababs, nihari, meats and sweets like the incomparable aflatoon and heavy duty malpua near Minara Masjid on Mohammed Ali Road and ending up with the inimitable green chilli ice cream at Bachellor’s opposite Chowpatty.
I really enjoy watching Zaika India and am looking forward to more with great expectations. I only wish Vinod Dua slows down a bit and delves more deeply into the food.
As of now, my favourite foodie TV programme is “The Foodie” on Times Now TV. For a year or so now, Kunal Vijayakar has kept us enthralled by his gastronomic adventures all over India, even exploring into the inferiors and the mofussil areas in search of our glorious culinary heritage. He shows us the food being cooked, which enhances the enjoyment and learning experience, but it is the expressions of genuine passion on his face, as he devours the freshly cooked delights, that leave the foodies hungering for more. His episodes on Lucknow, Udipi, Kolkata, Amritsar, Punjab, Mumbai, Hyderabad, Kurseong, Darjeeling, and the recent one on Pondicherry,were truly mouthwateringly memorable. The ‘Tea’ dishes of Kurseong, Kababs of Lucknow, Prawn Palmyra (tadgola?) of Pondicherry, and Butter Chicken and Fish Amritsari of Amritsar were unforgettable. I wonder when his gastronomic adventures are going to take him to Bihar, East UP, Varanasi, Kolhapur, Vidharbha, Orissa, Coastal Andhra and many other such places yet to be explored by The Foodie.
I enjoyed the Kerala and Mumbai episodes of the recently started “Secret Kitchen” by Bikramjit on CNN IBN and wait in eager anticipation for what’s going to come up in this interesting out of the ordinary programme.
“A Matter of Taste” by Vir Sanghvi, on Travel and Living, has got the royal touch. Fine dining in royal style though he did hit the streets of Delhi researching ‘Indian-Chinese’ cuisine.
I loved “Good Food” on NDTV by the vivacious and lively Seema Chandra who gave us a peep into high society and celebrity kitchens. She too seems to be an ardent foodie and her face lights up as she relishes food. As a Foodie hostess she rightly displays more interest in the eating, rather than the cooking, of the delicious dishes. I couldn’t catch up with this programme of late – have they taken it off or have the timings changed?
And of course I watch all the lip smacking food shows like Planet Food, Floyd’s India, Bordain, Taste of India et al on Travel and Living and BBC, and Mejwani and Khavaiyya on the Marathi channels. And of course I never miss the pioneering “Khana Khazana” by Sanjeev Kapoor.
I love watching foodie programmes on TV.
The greatest love is the love of food [even if it is eaten vicariously!]
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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
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
Friday, June 15, 2007
Malpua and Kheer
MALPUA AND KHEER
[a sumptuous delicious breakfast]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The rains have arrived in Pune. No, not the heavy monsoon showers one experiences in Mumbai, but the characteristic Puneri drizzle [pir-pir] with a shower once in a while. Whilst on my evening walk on ITI Road in Aundh last evening I was suddenly caught unawares by one of these sporadic showers so I ducked into the nearest shelter I could find – the basement of the Ozone Mall where I discovered a sweet shop called Kadhai. The brisk walk, the rainy season and the tempting array of sweets and savories on display made my mouth water and created an appetite in me, and I was wondering what to eat, when I discovered one of my favorite sweets “Malpua” displayed on the Menu Chart hung on the wall. This was indeed a pleasant surprise [since one doesn’t get to see much of Malpua in Pune] and brought back nostalgic mouthwatering memories of the delicious Malpua-Kheer we savored and devoured with gusto as a nourishing wholesome breakfast after bouts of heavy exercise on cold winter Sunday mornings long back in Banaras. Those were indeed the good old gastronomic days of high calorie energizing winter breakfasts like Malpua-Kheer and piping hot Jalebi or Lavang Lata with freshly boiled thick creamy Doodh [Milk] dipped and eaten the same way as one eats khari biscuits with Irani Chai.
I asked for Malpua and Kheer, but there was no Kheer, so I ordered a plate of Malpua and eagerly put a piece of the rich brown syrupy Malpua in my mouth. It was terrible – the Malpua tasted like boiled rubber drenched in sugar syrup. It did not melt in the mouth, or dissolve gracefully on the palate, but disintegrated into brittle fragments and left a stodgy aftertaste.
The soft fluffy succulent lusciousness, the sweet-sour tang of banana and curd fermentation, the spicy fragrance of cardamom, and most important, the distinctive taste and classic flavor of saunf [badishep] which is the hallmark of authentic Malpua, were conspicuous by their absence.
I was so disappointed that I called the “Maharaj” and asked him how he had managed to bungle and botch this exquisite delicacy and churn out this inexcusably appalling stuff masquerading as Malpua.
“Simple,” he said, “Boil enough Milk till it becomes Rabdi, mix in Maida and make a smooth batter, fry the pancakes in pure Ghee and soak in sugar syrup.”
“Just Milk and Maida? That’s not how you make Malpua,” I told him, “What about the Banana, Saunf, Cardamom, Spices, Coconut, Dry Fruit, Curds…?”
“This is the Rajasthani Style Malpua,” he said sheepishly and disappeared.
There are many versions of Malpua all over India – I have tasted the Rajasthani, Bengali, Karnataka, Maharashtrian, Gujarati, MP and UP versions. Then there are improvisations like potato malpua, pineapple malpua, orange malpua et al. There is also the inimitable and matchless rich heavy-duty invigorating and energizing hearty Malpua, braced and fortified with eggs, prepared in the evenings and nights during the holy month of Ramzan by Suleman Mithaiwala at Mohammed Ali Road near Minara Masjid in Mumbai. It is a meal in itself, but if you want you really want to do justice start off with Kababs, relish the Malpua, and top up with Phirnee.
Tell me, in which genre of cuisine should Malpua be classified? I’ll tell you – genuine Malpua is Bihari Cuisine. That’s right, no doubt about it, Malpua is a speciality of Bihar, like Khaja, and the best authentic Malpua is made Bihari Style, and this is how a Bihari friend of mine, an expert cook, taught me to make Malpua, long back.
Make a smooth batter with Maida, pinch of soda and salt, banana pulp, milk, cardamom [choti elaichi] pods and powder, a small pinch of nutmeg powder, freshly grated coconut, powdered and whole saunf, beaten curds and water. Beat well with your hands till the batter becomes light and fluffy. Cover and leave aside for an hour or more for a bit of fermentation.
Prepare 1:1 sugar syrup seasoned with cardamom and cloves. Sprinkle a little rosewater, saffron or essence, if you want. Keep the syrup hot, at least warm, to facilitate easy ingress into the malpua and to keep it soft and succulent.
Now mix and whip well with your hands, adding water if required, to get a smooth batter of pouring consistency, and deep-fry the pua [pancake] in pure ghee till nice and brown, soft and cooked, not too crisp. When ready take out the fried pua , drain excess ghee, and dip the pua in the hot sugar syrup completely for a minute to enable just enough permeation but obviate over-sogginess. With the sugar syrup absorbed, the pua has now become malpua and is ready to be eaten with deliciously sweet lip smacking Kheer. [Now don’t tell me you don’t know how to make delicious Kheer!]
Malpua must be eaten with Kheer. This is not a dessert, or snack, but a complete nourishing breakfast in its entirety. The luscious wholesome combination is heavenly and you will be overwhelmed with a wonderful feeling of blissful satiation.
Dear fellow Foodie – would you be so good as to tell me where I can find and savor genuine authentic Malpua and Kheer.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
[a sumptuous delicious breakfast]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The rains have arrived in Pune. No, not the heavy monsoon showers one experiences in Mumbai, but the characteristic Puneri drizzle [pir-pir] with a shower once in a while. Whilst on my evening walk on ITI Road in Aundh last evening I was suddenly caught unawares by one of these sporadic showers so I ducked into the nearest shelter I could find – the basement of the Ozone Mall where I discovered a sweet shop called Kadhai. The brisk walk, the rainy season and the tempting array of sweets and savories on display made my mouth water and created an appetite in me, and I was wondering what to eat, when I discovered one of my favorite sweets “Malpua” displayed on the Menu Chart hung on the wall. This was indeed a pleasant surprise [since one doesn’t get to see much of Malpua in Pune] and brought back nostalgic mouthwatering memories of the delicious Malpua-Kheer we savored and devoured with gusto as a nourishing wholesome breakfast after bouts of heavy exercise on cold winter Sunday mornings long back in Banaras. Those were indeed the good old gastronomic days of high calorie energizing winter breakfasts like Malpua-Kheer and piping hot Jalebi or Lavang Lata with freshly boiled thick creamy Doodh [Milk] dipped and eaten the same way as one eats khari biscuits with Irani Chai.
I asked for Malpua and Kheer, but there was no Kheer, so I ordered a plate of Malpua and eagerly put a piece of the rich brown syrupy Malpua in my mouth. It was terrible – the Malpua tasted like boiled rubber drenched in sugar syrup. It did not melt in the mouth, or dissolve gracefully on the palate, but disintegrated into brittle fragments and left a stodgy aftertaste.
The soft fluffy succulent lusciousness, the sweet-sour tang of banana and curd fermentation, the spicy fragrance of cardamom, and most important, the distinctive taste and classic flavor of saunf [badishep] which is the hallmark of authentic Malpua, were conspicuous by their absence.
I was so disappointed that I called the “Maharaj” and asked him how he had managed to bungle and botch this exquisite delicacy and churn out this inexcusably appalling stuff masquerading as Malpua.
“Simple,” he said, “Boil enough Milk till it becomes Rabdi, mix in Maida and make a smooth batter, fry the pancakes in pure Ghee and soak in sugar syrup.”
“Just Milk and Maida? That’s not how you make Malpua,” I told him, “What about the Banana, Saunf, Cardamom, Spices, Coconut, Dry Fruit, Curds…?”
“This is the Rajasthani Style Malpua,” he said sheepishly and disappeared.
There are many versions of Malpua all over India – I have tasted the Rajasthani, Bengali, Karnataka, Maharashtrian, Gujarati, MP and UP versions. Then there are improvisations like potato malpua, pineapple malpua, orange malpua et al. There is also the inimitable and matchless rich heavy-duty invigorating and energizing hearty Malpua, braced and fortified with eggs, prepared in the evenings and nights during the holy month of Ramzan by Suleman Mithaiwala at Mohammed Ali Road near Minara Masjid in Mumbai. It is a meal in itself, but if you want you really want to do justice start off with Kababs, relish the Malpua, and top up with Phirnee.
Tell me, in which genre of cuisine should Malpua be classified? I’ll tell you – genuine Malpua is Bihari Cuisine. That’s right, no doubt about it, Malpua is a speciality of Bihar, like Khaja, and the best authentic Malpua is made Bihari Style, and this is how a Bihari friend of mine, an expert cook, taught me to make Malpua, long back.
Make a smooth batter with Maida, pinch of soda and salt, banana pulp, milk, cardamom [choti elaichi] pods and powder, a small pinch of nutmeg powder, freshly grated coconut, powdered and whole saunf, beaten curds and water. Beat well with your hands till the batter becomes light and fluffy. Cover and leave aside for an hour or more for a bit of fermentation.
Prepare 1:1 sugar syrup seasoned with cardamom and cloves. Sprinkle a little rosewater, saffron or essence, if you want. Keep the syrup hot, at least warm, to facilitate easy ingress into the malpua and to keep it soft and succulent.
Now mix and whip well with your hands, adding water if required, to get a smooth batter of pouring consistency, and deep-fry the pua [pancake] in pure ghee till nice and brown, soft and cooked, not too crisp. When ready take out the fried pua , drain excess ghee, and dip the pua in the hot sugar syrup completely for a minute to enable just enough permeation but obviate over-sogginess. With the sugar syrup absorbed, the pua has now become malpua and is ready to be eaten with deliciously sweet lip smacking Kheer. [Now don’t tell me you don’t know how to make delicious Kheer!]
Malpua must be eaten with Kheer. This is not a dessert, or snack, but a complete nourishing breakfast in its entirety. The luscious wholesome combination is heavenly and you will be overwhelmed with a wonderful feeling of blissful satiation.
Dear fellow Foodie – would you be so good as to tell me where I can find and savor genuine authentic Malpua and Kheer.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
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