Samovar – The ideal place for a Relaxed Lunch in Arty Ambiance
By
Vikram Karve
When I was a small boy I traveled all over the country by train, and I remember many trains like The Calcutta Mail via Nagpur, The Frontier Mail, The Grand Trunk Express, and even the Deccan Queen, had Restaurant or Dining Cars where one could sit comfortably and enjoy leisurely meals comprising the choicest “railway cuisine” whilst viewing the scenery passing by through the large open windows. Each train had its own special a la carte dishes apart from the thalis. One can’t enjoy this luxury anymore as the railways have replaced Dining Cars with Pantry Cars and they serve lackluster standard meals packed in foil, paper and plastic containers.
On a warm Mumbai afternoon I feel nostalgic and remember the good old railway dining car lunches, and I am in a mood for a relaxed lunch in arty ambiance, so I convince my friend and we head for Samovar at the Jehangir Art Gallery at Kala Ghoda near the Museum. Samovar restaurant is situated next to the art gallery in a long rectangular veranda and resembles a Railway Restaurant Car of yesteryear. We relax on the cane chairs and enjoy the view of the adjoining Museum lawns.
There is a menu card, but the specialties of the day are scribbled on blackboards on both ends of the no-frills eatery. We order the specialties of the day – a Mutton Chilly Fry Lunch and Hyderabadi Kheema with Lachi Paratha. The tender boneless Mutton Chilly Fry well cooked in a thick dark brown sauce has a nice spicy peppery taste and blends well with the garlic bread and fresh salad. The fiery orange-red chilli-sour Hyderabadi Kheema is lip-smackingly zesty, the paratha super-soft and fluffy, and the combination is delicious.
Next we have the wholesome stuffed parathas [Gobi (Cauliflower) and Kheema] accompanied by their appetizing chutneys followed by Kheema and Kabab Rolls. To cool off, we end with the huge soothing Dahi Wadas. I’m tempted to order a biryani or a prawn pulao, but we’re nicely satiated and overeating will spoil everything – maybe we’ll try the rice dishes next time.
Samovar has a unique charm and friendly ambience you won’t find anywhere else. It serves excellent value-for-money food and is an ideal place for a cosy tete-a-tete with a friend over a leisurely lunch on a lazy afternoon.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Potato Ice Cream
POTATO ICE CREAM
Boil a litre of milk on a gentle fire till it thickens and becomes half of the original quantity.
Boil a kilo of potatoes and after peeling them, mash them nicely and add a little water and pass the pulp through a sieve to make it even. Add this even pulp to the thickened milk and cook it for a few minutes. Add a little pista and chironji chopped fine, and then add 300 grams of sugar (a bit more if you like your ice cream sweeter).
Cool it. Add a few drops of fine essence of your choice. Put it into a freezer and allow it to set.
Then, dear fellow foodie, please make it, eat it and let me know how it tastes, for I don’t have the courage (and stomach) to try out this exotic recipe and sample this wacky potato ice cream myself!
This recipe is from a cute little book I discovered in my bookcase called POTATO DISHES compiled by the Pusa Institute Ladies’ Association and published by Popular Prakashan Mumbai in 1965 priced for a “princely” sum of Rs. 2.00 ( yes, you read right, the book costs, or costed, Rupees Two only!). [I wonder how this delightful cookbook entered my bookcase – probably my mother may have bought it back then!]
Whenever I feel low, I leaf through my book shelves and pick out a cookbook. I browse through the appetizing recipes, and in my mind’s eye I “eat” and relish the yummy lip-smacking cuisine, my mouth waters, my troubles seem to go away, my spirits are lifted and I feel good. [Earlier, when I was in Mumbai, I used to rush out and actually eat the dish, or something similar in lieu, which further raised my spirits to a new high; but now that I am languishing in the back of beyond, I just savor the scrumptious food in my imagination which is probably good for my weight!]. It’s true – just the thought of good food can elevate you to a happy plane of living.
This 80 page book has a collection of 120 recipes arranged in 8 sections, all featuring the ubiquitous potato as the main ingredient, which were compiled during a cookery exhibition of potato dishes organized by the Pusa Institute Ladies’ Association in New Delhi.
Whatever potato delicacies you could imagine like the curries, koftas, dums, sukhas, rasedars, samosas, bondas, kachories, puris, parathas, snacks, pakoras, chips, chaats, cutlets, rolls and other run of the mill stuff is there. It’s the exotic, out of the ordinary, at times seemingly outlandish, dishes that make interesting reading.
Let’s have a look at section 7 – the Cakes section. [The recipe for Potato Ice-Cream, described above, features in this section – I didn’t know Ice Cream was a cake!]. The Potato Chocolate Cake, Potato Soufflé and Potato Doughnut sound interesting.
In section 8, they’ve incorporated and integrated potatoes into all the known Indian sweets – Rosogullas, Chum Chums, Gulab Jamuns, Jalebis, Kheers, Halwas, Pedas and Burfis. I wonder how they will taste and am tempted to try a few.
I tried a recipe called Alpama, a nice spicy and healthy savory, comprising cashewnuts, dals, suji, and of course the ubiquitous potato, served piping hot – it was delicious and invigorating!
And while you try out the Potato Ice Cream, I’ll try something substantial like Potato Paneer or the Nargis Potato Kabab.
Till Next Time – Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://foodiekarve.sulekha.com
Boil a litre of milk on a gentle fire till it thickens and becomes half of the original quantity.
Boil a kilo of potatoes and after peeling them, mash them nicely and add a little water and pass the pulp through a sieve to make it even. Add this even pulp to the thickened milk and cook it for a few minutes. Add a little pista and chironji chopped fine, and then add 300 grams of sugar (a bit more if you like your ice cream sweeter).
Cool it. Add a few drops of fine essence of your choice. Put it into a freezer and allow it to set.
Then, dear fellow foodie, please make it, eat it and let me know how it tastes, for I don’t have the courage (and stomach) to try out this exotic recipe and sample this wacky potato ice cream myself!
This recipe is from a cute little book I discovered in my bookcase called POTATO DISHES compiled by the Pusa Institute Ladies’ Association and published by Popular Prakashan Mumbai in 1965 priced for a “princely” sum of Rs. 2.00 ( yes, you read right, the book costs, or costed, Rupees Two only!). [I wonder how this delightful cookbook entered my bookcase – probably my mother may have bought it back then!]
Whenever I feel low, I leaf through my book shelves and pick out a cookbook. I browse through the appetizing recipes, and in my mind’s eye I “eat” and relish the yummy lip-smacking cuisine, my mouth waters, my troubles seem to go away, my spirits are lifted and I feel good. [Earlier, when I was in Mumbai, I used to rush out and actually eat the dish, or something similar in lieu, which further raised my spirits to a new high; but now that I am languishing in the back of beyond, I just savor the scrumptious food in my imagination which is probably good for my weight!]. It’s true – just the thought of good food can elevate you to a happy plane of living.
This 80 page book has a collection of 120 recipes arranged in 8 sections, all featuring the ubiquitous potato as the main ingredient, which were compiled during a cookery exhibition of potato dishes organized by the Pusa Institute Ladies’ Association in New Delhi.
Whatever potato delicacies you could imagine like the curries, koftas, dums, sukhas, rasedars, samosas, bondas, kachories, puris, parathas, snacks, pakoras, chips, chaats, cutlets, rolls and other run of the mill stuff is there. It’s the exotic, out of the ordinary, at times seemingly outlandish, dishes that make interesting reading.
Let’s have a look at section 7 – the Cakes section. [The recipe for Potato Ice-Cream, described above, features in this section – I didn’t know Ice Cream was a cake!]. The Potato Chocolate Cake, Potato Soufflé and Potato Doughnut sound interesting.
In section 8, they’ve incorporated and integrated potatoes into all the known Indian sweets – Rosogullas, Chum Chums, Gulab Jamuns, Jalebis, Kheers, Halwas, Pedas and Burfis. I wonder how they will taste and am tempted to try a few.
I tried a recipe called Alpama, a nice spicy and healthy savory, comprising cashewnuts, dals, suji, and of course the ubiquitous potato, served piping hot – it was delicious and invigorating!
And while you try out the Potato Ice Cream, I’ll try something substantial like Potato Paneer or the Nargis Potato Kabab.
Till Next Time – Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://foodiekarve.sulekha.com
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Heritage Cuisine of India by Vikram Karve - Misal
HERITAGE CUISINE
MISAL
(The Signature Dish of Maharashtra)
By
Vikram Karve
It’s pouring heavy rain, there is water all around, the rivers of Pune, the Mula and Mutha, are flowing in spate, I’m feeling wet and cold, and there’s nothing better to fire up your insides and perk you up than a hot spicy dish of Misal. Since I’m on Lakdi Pul, near Deccan, I head up Tilak Road to Ramnath, my old favorite.
I don’t delve too much on the contents, or the ingredients, which basically comprise an Usal, rassa (the spicy curry) and the garnish of sev, chiwda, farsan, onions, fresh corriander and green chillies, arranged in three tiers and served with a wedge of lemon. There are two bowls and spoons. Using both spoons, I mix the contents thoroughly, squeeze the lemon, and eat. It’s hot, delicious, my tongue is on fire, my nose and eyes water – the true test of a genuine missal. I bash on regardless. (Never try to douse the appetizing zesty fire in your insides by sipping water or ruin the gastronomic experience by succumbing to a bite of pav or bread they may have the temerity to place alongside).
Pav with Bhaji or Vada may be fine, but if you want to savor the genuine taste of misal, and experience the ‘proof’ of the real stuff, it would tantamount to sacrilege to have pav with misal.
The misal at Ramnath had peas in the Usal, but I prefer something sprouted like matki, moong or a combination, like they serve at Vinay on Thakurdwar Road in Girgaum in Mumbai. In fact, though Misal is the signature dish of Pune, I don’t think anyone in Pune serves a better misal than Vinay of Girgaum. ( If there is, do let me know).
I had my first taste of Misal way back in the sixties in a place called Santosh Bhavan near NMV School on the way to Appa Balwant Chowk from Laxmi Road in Pune, but looks like the place has disappeared.
Both Misal and Vada pav are Indian Fast-Foods, but Misal is certainly not a ‘junk’ food. If made with all the proper ingredients, it’s zesty, healthy, nourishing snack.
Dear fellow Foodies, do let me know where I can get a good fiery misal in Pune, where I have recently relocated after a long hiatus. Till then I’ll miss my Sunday morning lip-smacking misal at Vinay’s, which I religiously relished for the past six years in Mumbai, and have to make do with the fare at Ramnath.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
MISAL
(The Signature Dish of Maharashtra)
By
Vikram Karve
It’s pouring heavy rain, there is water all around, the rivers of Pune, the Mula and Mutha, are flowing in spate, I’m feeling wet and cold, and there’s nothing better to fire up your insides and perk you up than a hot spicy dish of Misal. Since I’m on Lakdi Pul, near Deccan, I head up Tilak Road to Ramnath, my old favorite.
I don’t delve too much on the contents, or the ingredients, which basically comprise an Usal, rassa (the spicy curry) and the garnish of sev, chiwda, farsan, onions, fresh corriander and green chillies, arranged in three tiers and served with a wedge of lemon. There are two bowls and spoons. Using both spoons, I mix the contents thoroughly, squeeze the lemon, and eat. It’s hot, delicious, my tongue is on fire, my nose and eyes water – the true test of a genuine missal. I bash on regardless. (Never try to douse the appetizing zesty fire in your insides by sipping water or ruin the gastronomic experience by succumbing to a bite of pav or bread they may have the temerity to place alongside).
Pav with Bhaji or Vada may be fine, but if you want to savor the genuine taste of misal, and experience the ‘proof’ of the real stuff, it would tantamount to sacrilege to have pav with misal.
The misal at Ramnath had peas in the Usal, but I prefer something sprouted like matki, moong or a combination, like they serve at Vinay on Thakurdwar Road in Girgaum in Mumbai. In fact, though Misal is the signature dish of Pune, I don’t think anyone in Pune serves a better misal than Vinay of Girgaum. ( If there is, do let me know).
I had my first taste of Misal way back in the sixties in a place called Santosh Bhavan near NMV School on the way to Appa Balwant Chowk from Laxmi Road in Pune, but looks like the place has disappeared.
Both Misal and Vada pav are Indian Fast-Foods, but Misal is certainly not a ‘junk’ food. If made with all the proper ingredients, it’s zesty, healthy, nourishing snack.
Dear fellow Foodies, do let me know where I can get a good fiery misal in Pune, where I have recently relocated after a long hiatus. Till then I’ll miss my Sunday morning lip-smacking misal at Vinay’s, which I religiously relished for the past six years in Mumbai, and have to make do with the fare at Ramnath.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Every dog has his day
EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I never reminisce. It makes me nostalgic, poignant, melancholic. But there is one thing that happened, quite long ago - whenever I remember it– I always burst out laughing. Let me tell you about it.
It happened long ago – almost fifty years ago – 1956 to be precise. In far-off tea-estate country, in a remote corner of India, almost in the back of the beyond – the place then still a relic of the Raj.
I shall not tell you the place, and I will also change the names; for we just want to have a laugh, not embarrass someone.
There was a handsome planter. 30. Let’s call him Roy. And his beautiful wife. Let’s call her Helen. A dashing couple. An ideal match – at least from the outside.
“Please. I’d like to have a word with you,” Roy sidled up to me at the bar in the Planters’ Club.
“Sure,” I said. “Join me for a drink.”
“Not here. It’s very personal.”
“Okay. Let’s go outside.” I ordered two whiskies, we picked up our drinks, and went out on the lawns. It was dark, desolate and cold.
“I don’t know how to say it,” Roy hesitated.
“Just say it,” I said.
“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said.
“Something serious?”
“I think she is having an affair,” he said, “someone visits her whenever I go out on my weekly tours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really. But I suspect. There are those telltale signs.”
“Like?”
“She seems a bit too satisfied – especially when I return from tour. And there is a strange gleam in her eyes. And now-a-days she is overly polite. I suspect she is up to some hanky-panky. ”
“Well this is really your private matter. You know I really can’t ….”
“Please,” he interrupted, “you’re the only one I can trust.”
He seemed so desperate that I had no choice. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll need to see your place. And her too.”
He told me the way to his tea-estate and next morning I was on my way, driving my jeep with a ferocious Doberman, Bruno, sitting beside me.
It was a lonely bungalow atop a hill surrounded by tea gardens. Roy welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. “I’m Helen,” she said looking into my eyes for that moment longer than could be considered polite greeting. She looked so ravishing that it was with great effort that I could take my eyes off her.
No wonder he was so insecure – anyone with such a beautiful wife would be insecure. Especially a clot like him – I wondered why dopes like Roy always got the most beautiful wives.
We indulged in some small-talk, and it was only after lunch that I brought up the subject. “Mrs. Roy, don’t you feel lonely out here. Especially when he goes out on tours.”
“Oh yes, she does,” Roy interjected.
“No, I don’t feel lonely,” Mrs. Roy said. “In fact, I love being alone. And don’t call me Mrs. Roy – call me Helen!”
“Why don’t you drop Helen off at the club on your way out and pick her up on your way back from your tour?” I suggested to Roy. “She can make some friends, play tennis, cards, tombola, a movie, party – do whatever she likes and then stay the nights at the guestroom.”
“I prefer my solitude,” she said.
“She even sends the servants away,” Roy complained.
“I told you I like my privacy,” she said, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
She was quite obstinate so I changed the subject.
“You like dogs?” I asked her.
“I love them,” she said excitedly. “We always had pet dogs back home.
I’ve been telling Roy to get me one.”
“Your prayers are answered,” I said and took them to my jeep where Bruno was sitting obediently. “A gift for the charming lady,” I said holding Bruno by the collar and making him smell her.
She was overjoyed. Roy apparently wasn’t too enthusiastic but I silenced him with a stern look.
On my way out, when I was alone with Roy, I told him, “We will catch him now. Bruno is the best guard dog in our kennel. I trained him myself. Just leave him in the verandah when you go out at night. He is deadly ferocious – whoever is up to hanky-panky with your wife, well, he is going to be ripped apart from limb to limb.”
A wicked smile appeared on Roy’s face as in his mind’s eye he visualized his wife’s unknown paramour being devastated by the ferocious dog.
That evening many things happened. Roy left on his tour, viciously excited, relishing in his imagination what was going to happen to the unknown “lover” that night.
Later that night, after a furious bout of lovemaking, Helen lying fully satiated, asked her lover, “How did you manage? That ferocious dog didn’t even bark!”
Her lover gently took her to the window, drew the curtains, and said, “look!”
In the verandah they saw a totally exhausted Bruno, coupled with a beautiful Doberman she-dog, both interlocked, and pointing in opposite directions, after vigorous bout of mating.
The lover looked at Helen naughtily and said, “Which dog can resist the charms of a hot-blooded bitch in heat?”
“You hot-dog!” Helen said lovingly to her lover, “every dog has his day!”
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I never reminisce. It makes me nostalgic, poignant, melancholic. But there is one thing that happened, quite long ago - whenever I remember it– I always burst out laughing. Let me tell you about it.
It happened long ago – almost fifty years ago – 1956 to be precise. In far-off tea-estate country, in a remote corner of India, almost in the back of the beyond – the place then still a relic of the Raj.
I shall not tell you the place, and I will also change the names; for we just want to have a laugh, not embarrass someone.
There was a handsome planter. 30. Let’s call him Roy. And his beautiful wife. Let’s call her Helen. A dashing couple. An ideal match – at least from the outside.
“Please. I’d like to have a word with you,” Roy sidled up to me at the bar in the Planters’ Club.
“Sure,” I said. “Join me for a drink.”
“Not here. It’s very personal.”
“Okay. Let’s go outside.” I ordered two whiskies, we picked up our drinks, and went out on the lawns. It was dark, desolate and cold.
“I don’t know how to say it,” Roy hesitated.
“Just say it,” I said.
“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said.
“Something serious?”
“I think she is having an affair,” he said, “someone visits her whenever I go out on my weekly tours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really. But I suspect. There are those telltale signs.”
“Like?”
“She seems a bit too satisfied – especially when I return from tour. And there is a strange gleam in her eyes. And now-a-days she is overly polite. I suspect she is up to some hanky-panky. ”
“Well this is really your private matter. You know I really can’t ….”
“Please,” he interrupted, “you’re the only one I can trust.”
He seemed so desperate that I had no choice. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll need to see your place. And her too.”
He told me the way to his tea-estate and next morning I was on my way, driving my jeep with a ferocious Doberman, Bruno, sitting beside me.
It was a lonely bungalow atop a hill surrounded by tea gardens. Roy welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. “I’m Helen,” she said looking into my eyes for that moment longer than could be considered polite greeting. She looked so ravishing that it was with great effort that I could take my eyes off her.
No wonder he was so insecure – anyone with such a beautiful wife would be insecure. Especially a clot like him – I wondered why dopes like Roy always got the most beautiful wives.
We indulged in some small-talk, and it was only after lunch that I brought up the subject. “Mrs. Roy, don’t you feel lonely out here. Especially when he goes out on tours.”
“Oh yes, she does,” Roy interjected.
“No, I don’t feel lonely,” Mrs. Roy said. “In fact, I love being alone. And don’t call me Mrs. Roy – call me Helen!”
“Why don’t you drop Helen off at the club on your way out and pick her up on your way back from your tour?” I suggested to Roy. “She can make some friends, play tennis, cards, tombola, a movie, party – do whatever she likes and then stay the nights at the guestroom.”
“I prefer my solitude,” she said.
“She even sends the servants away,” Roy complained.
“I told you I like my privacy,” she said, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
She was quite obstinate so I changed the subject.
“You like dogs?” I asked her.
“I love them,” she said excitedly. “We always had pet dogs back home.
I’ve been telling Roy to get me one.”
“Your prayers are answered,” I said and took them to my jeep where Bruno was sitting obediently. “A gift for the charming lady,” I said holding Bruno by the collar and making him smell her.
She was overjoyed. Roy apparently wasn’t too enthusiastic but I silenced him with a stern look.
On my way out, when I was alone with Roy, I told him, “We will catch him now. Bruno is the best guard dog in our kennel. I trained him myself. Just leave him in the verandah when you go out at night. He is deadly ferocious – whoever is up to hanky-panky with your wife, well, he is going to be ripped apart from limb to limb.”
A wicked smile appeared on Roy’s face as in his mind’s eye he visualized his wife’s unknown paramour being devastated by the ferocious dog.
That evening many things happened. Roy left on his tour, viciously excited, relishing in his imagination what was going to happen to the unknown “lover” that night.
Later that night, after a furious bout of lovemaking, Helen lying fully satiated, asked her lover, “How did you manage? That ferocious dog didn’t even bark!”
Her lover gently took her to the window, drew the curtains, and said, “look!”
In the verandah they saw a totally exhausted Bruno, coupled with a beautiful Doberman she-dog, both interlocked, and pointing in opposite directions, after vigorous bout of mating.
The lover looked at Helen naughtily and said, “Which dog can resist the charms of a hot-blooded bitch in heat?”
“You hot-dog!” Helen said lovingly to her lover, “every dog has his day!”
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
My Story
MY STORY
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It all started when God took my baby brother away. Poor thing! God took him away even before he was born. And Mamma was never the same again; she changed forever.
We were so happy then. My Papa, my Mamma, Granny and me. We all lived in a cute little house in a place called Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth in Pune.
In the morning Papa caught the company bus to his factory in Pimpri and Mamma walked me down to my school nearby on Bajirao Road. And the evenings we all went to the Talyatla Ganpati temple in Saras Baug, played on the lush green lawns, and if Papa was in a good mood he would treat me to a yummy Bhel prepared by the man with the huge flowing beard at the Kalpana Bhel stall on the way back.
On Sundays we would go to Laxmi Road for shopping, Misal at Santosh Bhavan, Amba ice cream at Ganu Shinde and, maybe, a Marathi movie at Prabhat, Vijay or Bhanuvilas.
And once in a while, Papa would take us on his Bajaj scooter to Camp, or a ride on the Jangli Maharaj Road, or to picnic spots like Khadakvasla and Katraj lakes, or up Sinhagarh Fort, and once we even went all the way to Lonavala; Papa, Mamma and me, all riding on our beloved and hardy scooter.
It was a good life, and we were happy and content. Two things are a must for a happy home – firstly, you should love your home, and always want to go home (your home should be the best place in the world for you); and, secondly, your home should love you, want you to come, beckon you, welcome you and like you to live in it. Our cute little house in Sadashiv Peth with all the loving people in living in it was indeed a happy home. And I had lots of friends all around.
One day they all said Mamma was going to have a baby. Being a girl myself, I wanted a baby sister to play with, but Granny scolded me and said it must be a baby brother, so I said okay – I would manage with a baby brother.
And suddenly one day, when Mamma’s tummy was bloating quite a bit, they rushed her to hospital, and God took my unborn baby brother away. And Mamma changed forever.
I sat beside Mamma in the hospital and consoled her, “Don’t worry. God will send another baby brother.”
And on hearing this Mamma started crying and said she would never have a baby again and I was her only baby.
She looked pale and had a sad look in her eyes for many days even after leaving hospital. Most of the time she would sit alone brooding by the window or moping all alone in her room.
“She’ll go crazy sitting in the house all day. She must do something!” everyone said, but Papa was adamant : “Who’ll look after the house, my mother, my daughter?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage everything,” Granny said, so Mamma joined a Computer class nearby. And soon she started becoming normal again. “She’s a natural programmer,” everyone praised her, and when she finished the course she was offered a good job in a top software firm.
“No way,” said Papa, “I’m the breadwinner. I don’t want my wife to work. I want her to look after the house.”
“MCP,” said everyone to Papa. I didn’t know what MCP meant, but it made Papa very angry.
“Let her work. I’ll manage the house,” Granny said.
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m a big girl now and can look after myself. I’ll study regularly and come first,” I promised.
And so, Mamma started working. And when she brought her first pay and gave it to Papa, he said proudly, “I’ll be the last person to touch my wife’s money, to live off my wife.” So my Mamma gave the money to Granny and Papa didn’t say a thing, he just sulked for days.
Life was hectic now. Mamma got up very early, cooked the food, did the housework, got ready and then both Papa and Mamma caught their respective company buses to their faraway workplaces – he to his factory in Pimpri and she to the IT Park. And after that Granny made me ready and I walked down Bajirao Road to my school.
One day my Mamma’s boss came home with Mamma. He said the company wanted to send Mamma abroad to the US for working on a project. He had come home to convince Papa to let her go. I thought Papa would argue, and hoped he would not let her go, but surprisingly he meekly agreed, probably thinking it was futile to argue, and Mamma went away to the States for three months.
That was a turning point in our lives. There was an IT boom and Mamma started doing better and better. Papa felt jealous that she was earning more than him, so he took VRS and started a business selling spare parts. And then a competition started between them, and soon they were making so much money that Sadashiv Peth wasn’t a good enough place to stay in any longer as it did not befit their new found status!
So we moved to a luxury apartment in a fancy township in a posh area of Pune, and I was put in a school known more for its snob appeal than studies. Our new house was in a beautiful colony, far away from the city, with landscaped gardens, clubhouse, swimming pool, gym and so many facilities. It was so luxurious and people living there so elite that Granny and I were miserable. “It’s like a 5 star prison,” she would say. She was right in one way. For the whole day when we were away she was trapped inside with nothing to but watch soaps on cable TV.
I too missed our cute old house in Sadashiv Peth, the Bhel, the trips to Saras Baug and Laxmi Road and most of all my earlier friends who were so friendly unlike the snobbish people here. Oh yes, this was indeed a better house, but our old place in Sadashiv Peth was certainly a better home!
But Granny and me – we managed somehow, as Mamma increased her trips abroad and Papa was busy expanding his flourishing business.
And suddenly one day God took Granny away. Mamma was abroad in the States on an important project and she just couldn’t come immediately. She came back after one month and for days Papa and she kept discussing something. I sensed it was about me.
And tomorrow morning, I’m off to an elite boarding school in Panchgani.
I don’t know whether what has happened is good or bad, or what is going to happen in future, but one thing is sure: If God hadn’t taken my baby brother away, I wouldn’t be going to boarding school!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It all started when God took my baby brother away. Poor thing! God took him away even before he was born. And Mamma was never the same again; she changed forever.
We were so happy then. My Papa, my Mamma, Granny and me. We all lived in a cute little house in a place called Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth in Pune.
In the morning Papa caught the company bus to his factory in Pimpri and Mamma walked me down to my school nearby on Bajirao Road. And the evenings we all went to the Talyatla Ganpati temple in Saras Baug, played on the lush green lawns, and if Papa was in a good mood he would treat me to a yummy Bhel prepared by the man with the huge flowing beard at the Kalpana Bhel stall on the way back.
On Sundays we would go to Laxmi Road for shopping, Misal at Santosh Bhavan, Amba ice cream at Ganu Shinde and, maybe, a Marathi movie at Prabhat, Vijay or Bhanuvilas.
And once in a while, Papa would take us on his Bajaj scooter to Camp, or a ride on the Jangli Maharaj Road, or to picnic spots like Khadakvasla and Katraj lakes, or up Sinhagarh Fort, and once we even went all the way to Lonavala; Papa, Mamma and me, all riding on our beloved and hardy scooter.
It was a good life, and we were happy and content. Two things are a must for a happy home – firstly, you should love your home, and always want to go home (your home should be the best place in the world for you); and, secondly, your home should love you, want you to come, beckon you, welcome you and like you to live in it. Our cute little house in Sadashiv Peth with all the loving people in living in it was indeed a happy home. And I had lots of friends all around.
One day they all said Mamma was going to have a baby. Being a girl myself, I wanted a baby sister to play with, but Granny scolded me and said it must be a baby brother, so I said okay – I would manage with a baby brother.
And suddenly one day, when Mamma’s tummy was bloating quite a bit, they rushed her to hospital, and God took my unborn baby brother away. And Mamma changed forever.
I sat beside Mamma in the hospital and consoled her, “Don’t worry. God will send another baby brother.”
And on hearing this Mamma started crying and said she would never have a baby again and I was her only baby.
She looked pale and had a sad look in her eyes for many days even after leaving hospital. Most of the time she would sit alone brooding by the window or moping all alone in her room.
“She’ll go crazy sitting in the house all day. She must do something!” everyone said, but Papa was adamant : “Who’ll look after the house, my mother, my daughter?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage everything,” Granny said, so Mamma joined a Computer class nearby. And soon she started becoming normal again. “She’s a natural programmer,” everyone praised her, and when she finished the course she was offered a good job in a top software firm.
“No way,” said Papa, “I’m the breadwinner. I don’t want my wife to work. I want her to look after the house.”
“MCP,” said everyone to Papa. I didn’t know what MCP meant, but it made Papa very angry.
“Let her work. I’ll manage the house,” Granny said.
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m a big girl now and can look after myself. I’ll study regularly and come first,” I promised.
And so, Mamma started working. And when she brought her first pay and gave it to Papa, he said proudly, “I’ll be the last person to touch my wife’s money, to live off my wife.” So my Mamma gave the money to Granny and Papa didn’t say a thing, he just sulked for days.
Life was hectic now. Mamma got up very early, cooked the food, did the housework, got ready and then both Papa and Mamma caught their respective company buses to their faraway workplaces – he to his factory in Pimpri and she to the IT Park. And after that Granny made me ready and I walked down Bajirao Road to my school.
One day my Mamma’s boss came home with Mamma. He said the company wanted to send Mamma abroad to the US for working on a project. He had come home to convince Papa to let her go. I thought Papa would argue, and hoped he would not let her go, but surprisingly he meekly agreed, probably thinking it was futile to argue, and Mamma went away to the States for three months.
That was a turning point in our lives. There was an IT boom and Mamma started doing better and better. Papa felt jealous that she was earning more than him, so he took VRS and started a business selling spare parts. And then a competition started between them, and soon they were making so much money that Sadashiv Peth wasn’t a good enough place to stay in any longer as it did not befit their new found status!
So we moved to a luxury apartment in a fancy township in a posh area of Pune, and I was put in a school known more for its snob appeal than studies. Our new house was in a beautiful colony, far away from the city, with landscaped gardens, clubhouse, swimming pool, gym and so many facilities. It was so luxurious and people living there so elite that Granny and I were miserable. “It’s like a 5 star prison,” she would say. She was right in one way. For the whole day when we were away she was trapped inside with nothing to but watch soaps on cable TV.
I too missed our cute old house in Sadashiv Peth, the Bhel, the trips to Saras Baug and Laxmi Road and most of all my earlier friends who were so friendly unlike the snobbish people here. Oh yes, this was indeed a better house, but our old place in Sadashiv Peth was certainly a better home!
But Granny and me – we managed somehow, as Mamma increased her trips abroad and Papa was busy expanding his flourishing business.
And suddenly one day God took Granny away. Mamma was abroad in the States on an important project and she just couldn’t come immediately. She came back after one month and for days Papa and she kept discussing something. I sensed it was about me.
And tomorrow morning, I’m off to an elite boarding school in Panchgani.
I don’t know whether what has happened is good or bad, or what is going to happen in future, but one thing is sure: If God hadn’t taken my baby brother away, I wouldn’t be going to boarding school!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
A short story by Vikram Karve
METAMORPHOSIS
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“I want to go home!” the father, a redoubtable looking old man, around seventy, shouts emphatically at his son.
“Please Baba. Don’t create a scene,” the son, an effeminate looking man in his mid-forties, says softly.
“What do you mean don’t create a scene?” the old man shouts even louder, waving his walking stick in a menacing manner.
“Please calm down! Everyone is looking at us!” an old woman, in her mid-sixties, pleads with her husband.
“Let them look! Let everyone see what an ungrateful son is doing to his poor old parents,” the old man says loudly, looking all around.
“Ungrateful?” the son winces.
“Yes, ungrateful! That’s what you are. We did everything for you; educated you, brought you up. And now you throw us out of our house into this bloody choultry.”
“Choultry! You call this a choultry! Please Baba. This is a luxury township for senior citizens,” the son says.
“It’s okay,” the old woman consoles her husband, “we’ll manage in this old age home.”
“Mama, please!” the son implores in exasperation, “how many times have I told you. This is not an old age home. It’s such a beautiful exclusive township for senior citizens to enjoy a happy and active life. And I’ve booked you a premium cottage – the best available here.”
The mother looks at her son, and then at her husband, trapped between the two, not knowing what to say as both are right in their own way. So she says gently to her husband, “Try to understand. We’ll adjust here. See how scenic and green this place is. See there – what a lovely garden.”
“I prefer Nana-Nani park. My friends are there,” the old man says.
“You’ll make friends here too,” she says.
“Friends! With these half-dead highbrow snobs?” the old man says mockingly.
“Okay,” the son intervenes, “you both can take long walks. The air is so pure and refreshing at this hill station.”
“Listen you! Don’t try all this on me. I’ve been walking for the last fifty years on Marine Drive and that’s where I intend walking the rest of my life.” He turns to his wife and says peremptorily to her, “You pack our bags and let’s go back to Mumbai. We are not staying here!”
“Try and adjust,” his wife beseeches him, “you’ll like the place. Look at the facilities here – there’s a modern health club, gym, library, recreation; everything is here.”
“Gym? You want me to do body building at this age? Library? You know after my cataract I can hardly read the newspaper! And I can get all the recreation I need watching the sea at the Chowpatty.”
“Please Baba, don’t be obstinate,” begs his son. “This place is so good for your health. They give you such delicious nourishing food here.”
“Delicious? Nourishing? The bloody sterile stuff tastes like hospital food. I can’t stand it – where will I get Sardar’s Pav Bhaji, Kyani’s Kheema Pav, Vinay’s Misal, Satam’s Vada Pav, Delhi Durbar’s Biryani, Sarvi’s Boti kababs, Fish in Anantashram in Khotachi wadi next door…”
“Please Baba! All you can think of is horrible oily spicy street-food which you should not eat at your age! With your cholesterol and sugar levels, you’ll die if you continue eating that stuff.”
“I’d rather die of a heart attack in Mumbai enjoying the good food I like rather than suffer a slow death here trying to eat this insipid tasteless nonsense.” The old man looks at his wife and commands, “Listen. Just pack up. We are not staying here like glorified slaves in this golden cage. One month here in this godforsaken place has made me almost mad. We are going right back to our house in Girgaum to live with dignity!”
“Please Baba. Don’t be difficult. I have to leave for the states tonight,” the son pleads desperately. “I’m trying to do the best possible for you. You know the huge amount I’ve paid as advance to book this place for you?”
“You go back to your family in America. I’m going back to my house in Girgaum! That’s final!” the old man affirms to his son. He looks at his wife and says, “You want to come along? Or should I go back alone?”
“Mama, please tell him,” the son looks at his mother.
The old woman looks lovingly at her husband, puts her hand on his arm and says softly, “Please try to understand. We have to live here. There’s no house in Girgaum. Our chawl has been sold to a builder. They are building a commercial complex there.”
“What?” the old man looks at his wife as if he is pole-axed, “you too!” And suddenly his defenses crumble and he disintegrates; the metamorphosis in his personality is unbelievable as he meekly holds his wife’s hand for support and obediently walks with her towards their cottage.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“I want to go home!” the father, a redoubtable looking old man, around seventy, shouts emphatically at his son.
“Please Baba. Don’t create a scene,” the son, an effeminate looking man in his mid-forties, says softly.
“What do you mean don’t create a scene?” the old man shouts even louder, waving his walking stick in a menacing manner.
“Please calm down! Everyone is looking at us!” an old woman, in her mid-sixties, pleads with her husband.
“Let them look! Let everyone see what an ungrateful son is doing to his poor old parents,” the old man says loudly, looking all around.
“Ungrateful?” the son winces.
“Yes, ungrateful! That’s what you are. We did everything for you; educated you, brought you up. And now you throw us out of our house into this bloody choultry.”
“Choultry! You call this a choultry! Please Baba. This is a luxury township for senior citizens,” the son says.
“It’s okay,” the old woman consoles her husband, “we’ll manage in this old age home.”
“Mama, please!” the son implores in exasperation, “how many times have I told you. This is not an old age home. It’s such a beautiful exclusive township for senior citizens to enjoy a happy and active life. And I’ve booked you a premium cottage – the best available here.”
The mother looks at her son, and then at her husband, trapped between the two, not knowing what to say as both are right in their own way. So she says gently to her husband, “Try to understand. We’ll adjust here. See how scenic and green this place is. See there – what a lovely garden.”
“I prefer Nana-Nani park. My friends are there,” the old man says.
“You’ll make friends here too,” she says.
“Friends! With these half-dead highbrow snobs?” the old man says mockingly.
“Okay,” the son intervenes, “you both can take long walks. The air is so pure and refreshing at this hill station.”
“Listen you! Don’t try all this on me. I’ve been walking for the last fifty years on Marine Drive and that’s where I intend walking the rest of my life.” He turns to his wife and says peremptorily to her, “You pack our bags and let’s go back to Mumbai. We are not staying here!”
“Try and adjust,” his wife beseeches him, “you’ll like the place. Look at the facilities here – there’s a modern health club, gym, library, recreation; everything is here.”
“Gym? You want me to do body building at this age? Library? You know after my cataract I can hardly read the newspaper! And I can get all the recreation I need watching the sea at the Chowpatty.”
“Please Baba, don’t be obstinate,” begs his son. “This place is so good for your health. They give you such delicious nourishing food here.”
“Delicious? Nourishing? The bloody sterile stuff tastes like hospital food. I can’t stand it – where will I get Sardar’s Pav Bhaji, Kyani’s Kheema Pav, Vinay’s Misal, Satam’s Vada Pav, Delhi Durbar’s Biryani, Sarvi’s Boti kababs, Fish in Anantashram in Khotachi wadi next door…”
“Please Baba! All you can think of is horrible oily spicy street-food which you should not eat at your age! With your cholesterol and sugar levels, you’ll die if you continue eating that stuff.”
“I’d rather die of a heart attack in Mumbai enjoying the good food I like rather than suffer a slow death here trying to eat this insipid tasteless nonsense.” The old man looks at his wife and commands, “Listen. Just pack up. We are not staying here like glorified slaves in this golden cage. One month here in this godforsaken place has made me almost mad. We are going right back to our house in Girgaum to live with dignity!”
“Please Baba. Don’t be difficult. I have to leave for the states tonight,” the son pleads desperately. “I’m trying to do the best possible for you. You know the huge amount I’ve paid as advance to book this place for you?”
“You go back to your family in America. I’m going back to my house in Girgaum! That’s final!” the old man affirms to his son. He looks at his wife and says, “You want to come along? Or should I go back alone?”
“Mama, please tell him,” the son looks at his mother.
The old woman looks lovingly at her husband, puts her hand on his arm and says softly, “Please try to understand. We have to live here. There’s no house in Girgaum. Our chawl has been sold to a builder. They are building a commercial complex there.”
“What?” the old man looks at his wife as if he is pole-axed, “you too!” And suddenly his defenses crumble and he disintegrates; the metamorphosis in his personality is unbelievable as he meekly holds his wife’s hand for support and obediently walks with her towards their cottage.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Polka Dots
POLKA DOTS - A CUTE LITTLE EATING PLACE IN AUNDH, PUNE.
It’s almost dark; Overcast Sky; Thunder, Winds and Rain; lights go off (so typical of Pune – a bit of wind, a hint of rain and the electricity fails); a depressing evening. My daughter says : “Let’s go to Polka Dots. It’s nearby and my friends tell me it’s good!”
So we land up at ‘Polka Dots’ – a cute little eating place on DP Road near Parihar Chowk in Aundh, Pune.
The café (I wouldn’t call it a restaurant) is on the side of a house, the seating well covered, the cooking area open and airy.
The menu is confusing – it features vignettes of all types of cuisine so one can’t really classify the genre of this eating place – so we order a Roast Chicken Lyonnaise for my daughter, a Chicken Corden-Bleu (I suspect the spellings may be wrong but that’s how they spell it!) for me and a Mexican Corn & Jalapeno for my vegetarian wife.
The chicken is excellent – the roast is very yummy and the soft and succulent breast of chicken in its delicious sauce is exquisite. My wife tells me that the vegetarian corn and jalapeno was excellent too.
Try the place; you may find it a bit expensive, but it’s okay once in a while. The crowd is young and the ambience is lively. And do let me know if you liked the place.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
It’s almost dark; Overcast Sky; Thunder, Winds and Rain; lights go off (so typical of Pune – a bit of wind, a hint of rain and the electricity fails); a depressing evening. My daughter says : “Let’s go to Polka Dots. It’s nearby and my friends tell me it’s good!”
So we land up at ‘Polka Dots’ – a cute little eating place on DP Road near Parihar Chowk in Aundh, Pune.
The café (I wouldn’t call it a restaurant) is on the side of a house, the seating well covered, the cooking area open and airy.
The menu is confusing – it features vignettes of all types of cuisine so one can’t really classify the genre of this eating place – so we order a Roast Chicken Lyonnaise for my daughter, a Chicken Corden-Bleu (I suspect the spellings may be wrong but that’s how they spell it!) for me and a Mexican Corn & Jalapeno for my vegetarian wife.
The chicken is excellent – the roast is very yummy and the soft and succulent breast of chicken in its delicious sauce is exquisite. My wife tells me that the vegetarian corn and jalapeno was excellent too.
Try the place; you may find it a bit expensive, but it’s okay once in a while. The crowd is young and the ambience is lively. And do let me know if you liked the place.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Friday, May 26, 2006
Lavang Lata
HERITAGE CUISINE
Lavang Lata at Babumosai
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“Heritage Cuisine” – sounds good isn’t it?
You may presume that this pompous term refers to pretentious traditional high-brow cuisine which adorns the tables of the classes!
In my vocabulary “heritage cuisine” is high-falutin gobbledygook for simple staple down-to-earth local street-food relished by the masses. Like Vada Pav (Mumbai’s “Heritage Burger”), or Puneri Misal, or Kulcha Chole, Katchi Dabeli, Bhel, Kathi Kababs, Baida Roti, Malpua – the list is endless.
There is a delicious sweetmeat called “Lavang Lata” which I tasted for the first time and relished piping hot at Pehelwan’s at the end of Lanka near BHU in Varanasi in the seventies. A cool Lassi ( in winter) or warm milk (in summer), both with dollops of rabdi added, topped up the gastronomic experience.
Later, in the eighties, I came across slightly different versions of Lavang Lata at various eateries, most notably Nathu at Bengali market in New Delhi. But these versions were nowhere close to Pehelwan’s Banarasi Lavang Lata.
Just imagine my surprise, when, during my walk last evening, I chanced upon a delectable Lavang Lata in an out-of-the-way unpretentious sweet shop called ‘Babumosai Bengali Sweets’ tucked away almost in obscurity, way off the beaten track, on Aundh Road on the way to Khadki in Pune.
Actually I was in search of Rasgullas. (Roshogollas, if you want it spelt that way). Having relocated from a ‘happening’ place like Churchgate in the heart of Mumbai to an obscure “back of the beyond” desolate place somewhere in the jungles on the banks of Mula river between Aundh and Sangvi, craving and wandering desperately in my search for ‘heritage food’, I hit the Aundh road past Spicer College towards Khadki, enjoying a refreshing walk between the expanse of the verdant Botanical Gardens and the foliage of Pune University, when in the first building I encountered on my left, I saw a nondescript signboard “Babumosai Bengali Sweets” (maybe the spelling ought to be ‘Babumoshai’) atop a deserted lackluster sweetshop.
There was no one in the shop and the lifeless atmosphere and uninspiring display almost put me off. But having come so far, I decided to give it a try and looked at the sweets on display in trays behind a glass counter - Rasgullas, Sandesh, Rajbhog, Gulab Jamuns, Malai Sandwiches - the ubiquitous ‘Bengali Sweets’; and suddenly a man came out carrying a tray of piping hot Lavang Latas, the very sight of which made my mouth water so much that I ordered one immediately.
I walked outside the shop, stood in the cool evening air, took a small bite of the Lavang Lata, rolled the syrupy hot piece on my eager salivated tongue and closed my eyes in order to enhance my gustatory experience.
I pressed the Lavang Lata upwards with my tongue against the palate, the roof of my mouth, and slowly it disintegrated releasing its heavenly flavour of nutmeg and cardamom. That’s the way you should enjoy Bengali sweetmeats – never bite, swallow and devour in a hurry. Don’t use your teeth; slowly, very slowly, just roll on your tongue and lightly press on the roof of your mouth till the delicacy melts releasing its luxurious flavour and divine fragrance into your gustatory and olfactory systems. And remember, keep your eyes closed, shut yourself to the outside world, focus on your tongue, internalize the experience and transcend to a state of delightful ecstasy, till you feel you are in seventh heaven. That’s the art of eating.
The Lavang Lata is perfect. Not sickly sweet, but tantalizingly tasty, with the subtle essence of its ingredients and seasoning coming through. The rabri and khoya, the raisins and dry fruits, the crispy sweet crust, the spices and most importantly, the exotic fortifying and stimulating taste of clove. It’s sheer bliss. The invigorating taste lingers on my tongue for a long long time , as if for eternity.
Just writing this is making my mouth water. And I am rushing to “Babumosai” once more – this time to sample the Rasgullas, maybe the Sandesh – and I’ll tell you all about it right here.
And I’ll keep writing about all the my experiences with “Heritage Cuisine” and the art of eating.
Dear fellow Foodie - do let me know if you enjoyed reading this.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Lavang Lata at Babumosai
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“Heritage Cuisine” – sounds good isn’t it?
You may presume that this pompous term refers to pretentious traditional high-brow cuisine which adorns the tables of the classes!
In my vocabulary “heritage cuisine” is high-falutin gobbledygook for simple staple down-to-earth local street-food relished by the masses. Like Vada Pav (Mumbai’s “Heritage Burger”), or Puneri Misal, or Kulcha Chole, Katchi Dabeli, Bhel, Kathi Kababs, Baida Roti, Malpua – the list is endless.
There is a delicious sweetmeat called “Lavang Lata” which I tasted for the first time and relished piping hot at Pehelwan’s at the end of Lanka near BHU in Varanasi in the seventies. A cool Lassi ( in winter) or warm milk (in summer), both with dollops of rabdi added, topped up the gastronomic experience.
Later, in the eighties, I came across slightly different versions of Lavang Lata at various eateries, most notably Nathu at Bengali market in New Delhi. But these versions were nowhere close to Pehelwan’s Banarasi Lavang Lata.
Just imagine my surprise, when, during my walk last evening, I chanced upon a delectable Lavang Lata in an out-of-the-way unpretentious sweet shop called ‘Babumosai Bengali Sweets’ tucked away almost in obscurity, way off the beaten track, on Aundh Road on the way to Khadki in Pune.
Actually I was in search of Rasgullas. (Roshogollas, if you want it spelt that way). Having relocated from a ‘happening’ place like Churchgate in the heart of Mumbai to an obscure “back of the beyond” desolate place somewhere in the jungles on the banks of Mula river between Aundh and Sangvi, craving and wandering desperately in my search for ‘heritage food’, I hit the Aundh road past Spicer College towards Khadki, enjoying a refreshing walk between the expanse of the verdant Botanical Gardens and the foliage of Pune University, when in the first building I encountered on my left, I saw a nondescript signboard “Babumosai Bengali Sweets” (maybe the spelling ought to be ‘Babumoshai’) atop a deserted lackluster sweetshop.
There was no one in the shop and the lifeless atmosphere and uninspiring display almost put me off. But having come so far, I decided to give it a try and looked at the sweets on display in trays behind a glass counter - Rasgullas, Sandesh, Rajbhog, Gulab Jamuns, Malai Sandwiches - the ubiquitous ‘Bengali Sweets’; and suddenly a man came out carrying a tray of piping hot Lavang Latas, the very sight of which made my mouth water so much that I ordered one immediately.
I walked outside the shop, stood in the cool evening air, took a small bite of the Lavang Lata, rolled the syrupy hot piece on my eager salivated tongue and closed my eyes in order to enhance my gustatory experience.
I pressed the Lavang Lata upwards with my tongue against the palate, the roof of my mouth, and slowly it disintegrated releasing its heavenly flavour of nutmeg and cardamom. That’s the way you should enjoy Bengali sweetmeats – never bite, swallow and devour in a hurry. Don’t use your teeth; slowly, very slowly, just roll on your tongue and lightly press on the roof of your mouth till the delicacy melts releasing its luxurious flavour and divine fragrance into your gustatory and olfactory systems. And remember, keep your eyes closed, shut yourself to the outside world, focus on your tongue, internalize the experience and transcend to a state of delightful ecstasy, till you feel you are in seventh heaven. That’s the art of eating.
The Lavang Lata is perfect. Not sickly sweet, but tantalizingly tasty, with the subtle essence of its ingredients and seasoning coming through. The rabri and khoya, the raisins and dry fruits, the crispy sweet crust, the spices and most importantly, the exotic fortifying and stimulating taste of clove. It’s sheer bliss. The invigorating taste lingers on my tongue for a long long time , as if for eternity.
Just writing this is making my mouth water. And I am rushing to “Babumosai” once more – this time to sample the Rasgullas, maybe the Sandesh – and I’ll tell you all about it right here.
And I’ll keep writing about all the my experiences with “Heritage Cuisine” and the art of eating.
Dear fellow Foodie - do let me know if you enjoyed reading this.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Empress Court
EMPRESS COURT – An Art Deco building in the Fort Heritage Precinct (Oval sub Precinct) of Mumbai
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The next time you visit South Mumbai, go to Churchgate, admire the beautiful Art Deco style façade of the Eros Cinema, an architectural landmark, which marks the beginning of the Art Deco district of Oval Precinct; and start walking southwards down Maharshi Karve Road, passing Eros, Sundance cafe to your right, the verdant Oval Maidan across the road to your left.
Keep walking past splendid Art Deco buildings like Court View, Queens Court, Greenfield, Windsor, Rajesh Mansion; stop at the T-junction with Dinsha Vachha Road, look across the road and you will see the most magnificent of them all – Empress Court.
Pause for a moment to appreciate the splendid pista green building with its exquisite façade. Then cross the road, walk through the elegant entrance, climb up the wooden spiral staircase to the second floor and ring the doorbell. If you had come just a few days earlier, I would have opened the door – for this is the place where I spent the six best years of my life. Oh yes! How can I ever forget Empress Court – the best house I have ever lived in!
Let’s go in. A huge hall, dining room to the left, drawing room to the right, airy windows and a cute circular balcony. Stand in the balcony and admire Mumbai University’s Rajabai Clock Tower right in front of you across the Oval, the High Court to its left and Old Secretariat to the right; all Gothic style majestic structures in stone.
Walk through the airy cool rooms, each with a balcony with excellent views. Open the doors and windows and enjoy the refreshing sea breeze. It’s heavenly. Words cannot describe the blissful delight I felt when I lived here. Close your eyes and think of GB Mhatre, the architect who crafted and designed this elegant apartment house.
Empress Court, facing the Rajabai Clock Tower, on the western side of the Oval, is a part of the heritage Fort precinct. The lush green Oval Maidan, a Heritage Grade I precinct, an open space colonial pattern esplanada of scenic beauty, acting as a buffer between two architectural period styles – the Gothic buildings of the Mumbai University, Bombay High Court and Old Secretariat to the east and Art Deco district to its west.
The location of Empress Court is ideal. There is the Oxford Bookstore next door where I spent delightful hours browsing books on elegant orange rocking chairs, refreshing myself with delicious cups of invigorating teas in the Cha Bar. Just a short walk and you are at Marine Drive. The Business and Art districts, education, museums, sightseeing, shopping, good food, entertainment, night life, clubs, sports, bus and railway stations – everything is so nearby. You’re right in the centre of everything that’s happening in Mumbai.
I shall never forget the clock atop Rajabai Tower which woke me up at six every morning, the metamorphosis at sunrise as the sun rose every morning between the tall BSE building and the Clock Tower, the soothing green Oval maidan, football matches at the Cooperage, and the calm tranquil sunsets on Marine Drive.
Thank you Empress Court. I shall always cherish the six years I spent with you - the best years of my life in the best place I have ever lived in.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The next time you visit South Mumbai, go to Churchgate, admire the beautiful Art Deco style façade of the Eros Cinema, an architectural landmark, which marks the beginning of the Art Deco district of Oval Precinct; and start walking southwards down Maharshi Karve Road, passing Eros, Sundance cafe to your right, the verdant Oval Maidan across the road to your left.
Keep walking past splendid Art Deco buildings like Court View, Queens Court, Greenfield, Windsor, Rajesh Mansion; stop at the T-junction with Dinsha Vachha Road, look across the road and you will see the most magnificent of them all – Empress Court.
Pause for a moment to appreciate the splendid pista green building with its exquisite façade. Then cross the road, walk through the elegant entrance, climb up the wooden spiral staircase to the second floor and ring the doorbell. If you had come just a few days earlier, I would have opened the door – for this is the place where I spent the six best years of my life. Oh yes! How can I ever forget Empress Court – the best house I have ever lived in!
Let’s go in. A huge hall, dining room to the left, drawing room to the right, airy windows and a cute circular balcony. Stand in the balcony and admire Mumbai University’s Rajabai Clock Tower right in front of you across the Oval, the High Court to its left and Old Secretariat to the right; all Gothic style majestic structures in stone.
Walk through the airy cool rooms, each with a balcony with excellent views. Open the doors and windows and enjoy the refreshing sea breeze. It’s heavenly. Words cannot describe the blissful delight I felt when I lived here. Close your eyes and think of GB Mhatre, the architect who crafted and designed this elegant apartment house.
Empress Court, facing the Rajabai Clock Tower, on the western side of the Oval, is a part of the heritage Fort precinct. The lush green Oval Maidan, a Heritage Grade I precinct, an open space colonial pattern esplanada of scenic beauty, acting as a buffer between two architectural period styles – the Gothic buildings of the Mumbai University, Bombay High Court and Old Secretariat to the east and Art Deco district to its west.
The location of Empress Court is ideal. There is the Oxford Bookstore next door where I spent delightful hours browsing books on elegant orange rocking chairs, refreshing myself with delicious cups of invigorating teas in the Cha Bar. Just a short walk and you are at Marine Drive. The Business and Art districts, education, museums, sightseeing, shopping, good food, entertainment, night life, clubs, sports, bus and railway stations – everything is so nearby. You’re right in the centre of everything that’s happening in Mumbai.
I shall never forget the clock atop Rajabai Tower which woke me up at six every morning, the metamorphosis at sunrise as the sun rose every morning between the tall BSE building and the Clock Tower, the soothing green Oval maidan, football matches at the Cooperage, and the calm tranquil sunsets on Marine Drive.
Thank you Empress Court. I shall always cherish the six years I spent with you - the best years of my life in the best place I have ever lived in.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Reay Road
A LITTLE KNOWN HERITAGE STRUCTURE OF MUMBAI:
REAY ROAD RAILWAY STATION – THE CUTEST SUBURBAN RAILWAY STATION IN MUMBAI
by
VIKRAM KARVE
A few days ago, on my way to the Lal Bahadur Shastri Nautical College (LBS CAMSAR) at Hay Bunder in Mumbai, I decided to go by train and caught a harbour branch local at CST Mumbai, and crossing Masjid, Sandhurst Road and Dockyard Road stations, got down at Reay Road. Walking towards the exit I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty of the station building, which stood like a sentinel above the railway lines passing through beneath it, an elegant clock in the centre. Many Mariners, in their younger days, would have passed through its portals without even giving it a second look. It’s the cutest and most petite railway station I have ever seen. Let me tell you about it.
Did you know that Reay Road Railway Station, a prime landmark of Mumbai, is a 19th Century Heritage Grade I structure? Surely you knew CST (VT/ Bori Bunder) and Churchgate were Heritage Buildings, but did you even imagine in your wildest thoughts that Reay Road was an equally prestigious one embodying excellence in architectural style, design, building technology and material usage!
Reay Road railway station, on the harbour branch railway line of the Central Railway, rises to the top of a road bridge whose span bestrides and overlaps the railway track underneath. The railway tracks tunnel through an arch on the southern side. The station superstructure, constructed of stone, atop the arch, has in its center a majestic clock overlooking the platforms and tracks as if keeping a benevolent and watchful eye on the goings on below. It is an elegant and unique example in compressed space utilization, a masterpiece - a true work of art. I have not seen a railway station like Reay Road anywhere else.
I think Reay Road is the only Heritage Railway Station on Mumbai’s Harbour line. The other heritage stations on Mumbai’s suburban railway include Byculla in the Central railway and Bandra on the Western railway.
The next time you are in Mumbai, catch a harbour local and get down at Reay Road. Stand aside and let the commuters rush away; and then look towards the southern side and marvel at the adorable and captivating heritage masterpiece. And do let me know how you felt!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
REAY ROAD RAILWAY STATION – THE CUTEST SUBURBAN RAILWAY STATION IN MUMBAI
by
VIKRAM KARVE
A few days ago, on my way to the Lal Bahadur Shastri Nautical College (LBS CAMSAR) at Hay Bunder in Mumbai, I decided to go by train and caught a harbour branch local at CST Mumbai, and crossing Masjid, Sandhurst Road and Dockyard Road stations, got down at Reay Road. Walking towards the exit I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty of the station building, which stood like a sentinel above the railway lines passing through beneath it, an elegant clock in the centre. Many Mariners, in their younger days, would have passed through its portals without even giving it a second look. It’s the cutest and most petite railway station I have ever seen. Let me tell you about it.
Did you know that Reay Road Railway Station, a prime landmark of Mumbai, is a 19th Century Heritage Grade I structure? Surely you knew CST (VT/ Bori Bunder) and Churchgate were Heritage Buildings, but did you even imagine in your wildest thoughts that Reay Road was an equally prestigious one embodying excellence in architectural style, design, building technology and material usage!
Reay Road railway station, on the harbour branch railway line of the Central Railway, rises to the top of a road bridge whose span bestrides and overlaps the railway track underneath. The railway tracks tunnel through an arch on the southern side. The station superstructure, constructed of stone, atop the arch, has in its center a majestic clock overlooking the platforms and tracks as if keeping a benevolent and watchful eye on the goings on below. It is an elegant and unique example in compressed space utilization, a masterpiece - a true work of art. I have not seen a railway station like Reay Road anywhere else.
I think Reay Road is the only Heritage Railway Station on Mumbai’s Harbour line. The other heritage stations on Mumbai’s suburban railway include Byculla in the Central railway and Bandra on the Western railway.
The next time you are in Mumbai, catch a harbour local and get down at Reay Road. Stand aside and let the commuters rush away; and then look towards the southern side and marvel at the adorable and captivating heritage masterpiece. And do let me know how you felt!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, May 22, 2006
Bundle of Joy by Vikram Karve
BUNDLE OF JOY
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It’s a warm Sunday morning in Pune. Let’s go to the apartment of a young Double Income No Kids (DINK) couple in a posh residential complex in Aundh. The man and the woman, both in their late twenties, sit across a table in the drawing room. Let’s hear what they are talking!
“Let’s start with the house,” the man says.
“Okay,” the woman says.
“We bought it for 12. It’s worth 17 today.”
“You keep the house,” the woman says.
“Thanks. I knew you would let me keep it,” the man says with a sigh of relief and opens a folder on the table between them. “I’ve worked it out. Here’s a cheque for 5 Lakhs. I’ll take over all your EMIs and your part of the loan. Have a look at the papers and sign.”
The woman signs the papers without reading, picks up the cheque and puts it in her purse.
“The car. You want to keep it?”
“Of course. It’s on my name. I got the loan, remember!”
“Please. Let’s not start yours and mine again. We agreed the split would be as amicable as possible.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says a bit contrite.
“It’s just that I thought you’d like to buy a new one.”
“No. I like the Santro.”
“Okay. I’ll make do with my old bike for a few days. Then I’ll go in for the SUV I always wanted.”
The woman looks at the wall-clock. “Oh my God! It’s ten thirty already. The packers and movers will be here any moment. Let’s hurry and finish it off once and for all!”
“Okay. Let’s go room by room,” the man says. He gives the woman a notepad and a pen, “You better write it down, so you can tell the packers.”
“You write,” the woman says.
“Okay. Let’s start with the living room.”
“The TV, DVD, Music System – you can keep everything. I only want all the beautiful wrought iron furniture I’ve specially got made.”
“At least leave me a couple of chairs and a table!” the man pleads.
“Oh, come on! When will you understand? It’s a whole set! You can buy the cheap molded stuff you always liked.”
“Okay. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
“I’ll take the microwave and dishwasher; and some good crockery and cutlery. You keep the stainless steel stuff which you love for its utilitarian value.”
“Don’t be sarcastic!” the man snaps.
“I’m not,” the woman answers, “I’m sick and tired of your ‘Value For Money’ obsession. You never like anything elegant and refined.”
“I prefer to drink the best scotch in a stainless steel tumbler rather than a third rate whisky served in fancy cut-glass!”
“So go ahead Cheapie! Once I leave you can eat out of earthenware bowls and sit on straw mats for all I care! But I like classy stuff. Oh, yes; I’m taking the new carpet you’ve kept packed inside, those new lace curtains and all the curios.”
“Sure. Take anything you want. Except my books!”
“Books! I don’t want any of your books,” the woman says, “That’s all you’ve done. Buy books and wallow in them. With the money you’ve squandered on your books you could have bought me a diamond, the solitaire I wanted for my last birthday.”
“Please Anju! Let’s not start again.”
“Okay Abhi. I’m sorry. Let’s get all this over with as quickly as possible and part as good friends.”
And so they go about it, without a trace of acrimony, scrupulously and systematically, room by room, cupboard by cupboard, item by item – clothes, air conditioner, computer, washing machine, furniture, beds, linen, everything; even the playthings and investments they had diligently accumulated for the baby they had planned to have after they both were well established in their careers – each and every asset in the house is meticulously divided between the two and the woman’s items are segregated, packed and loaded in the truck by the packers.
“Thanks for making it so easy,” the woman says.
“You too!” the man says.
“No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings! It’s best for both of us.”
“I know. We were mismatched, just not compatible, that’s all.”
“There were good times too!”
“Yes.”
“It had to happen. I’m so happy it’s happened so amicably.”
“Me too. Bye Abhi. Take care,” the woman says and calls out, “Dolly! Dolly!”
A cute and fluffy little snow-white Lhasa Apso dog, who till now was sitting quietly in the balcony, runs up to the woman, excitedly wagging its tail. The woman lovingly picks up the adorable little dog in her arms and begins to walk towards the door.
“Wait. Where are you taking Dolly?” asks the man apprehensively.
“With me, of course,” the woman says.
“No, you’re not! Dolly stays with me!” the man says firmly.
“How can she stay with you?”
“What do you mean ‘how can she stay with me’? This is her house. She will stay here like she has stayed all these days. I’ll look after her.”
“No. I’m taking Dolly with me. Look how she’s cuddling in my arms.”
“She cuddles in my arms too! Dolly stays with me.You can’t take her.”
“I’m taking her. Try stopping me!” the woman says defiantly and moves towards the door.
In a flash, the man rushes to the door and blocks her way. The dog senses the tension and stiffens.
“Look, you’re scaring her,” the woman says.
“Give her to me,” the man says, takes Dolly in his arms and begins baby-talking to her, petting her and gently fondling her neck lovingly with his hand. The dog relaxes, snuggles and begins licking his hands.
“Be reasonable, Abhi,” the woman says. “I always assumed Dolly would be coming with me. That’s why I’ve found a ground floor flat with a small garden where she can play. She feels cooped up here and you’ll find it difficult to look after her.”
“How can you assume such things? She’s staying with me. I’ll look after her. You don’t worry.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Abhi! Give her to me please.”
“No. Dolly stays here with me.”
“I’m not going without her.”
“Don’t go.”
“What do you mean ‘Don’t go’! We had agreed to the separation. That we would work out things amicably. That there would be no acrimony or rancor and we would always remain good friends. Then why this bitterness at the last moment? Please give Dolly to me.”
“No. Dolly stays with me. I can’t live without her.”
“I too can’t live without her.”
“Then stay here!”
“Okay. I’ll stay put right here,” the woman says defiantly. “I’m not moving an inch from here till such time you don’t let me take Dolly with me.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
In the evening, the man and the woman are playing with their cute little dog, Dolly, on the lush green lawns of their residential complex.
Epilogue
Three years ago when our protagonists, the man and the woman, newly married, were in Shillong for their honeymoon, their jolly dog-loving uncle, a retired Colonel, presented them with a beautiful month old baby female Lhasa Apso pup as a wedding gift. He had already named her Dolly. The Colonel’s wife scolded him saying that the pet would encumber the young couple’s married life. In fact, the darling pet saved their marriage. She turned out to be their bundle of joy.
BUNDLE OF JOY – A fiction short story by VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
It’s a warm Sunday morning in Pune. Let’s go to the apartment of a young Double Income No Kids (DINK) couple in a posh residential complex in Aundh. The man and the woman, both in their late twenties, sit across a table in the drawing room. Let’s hear what they are talking!
“Let’s start with the house,” the man says.
“Okay,” the woman says.
“We bought it for 12. It’s worth 17 today.”
“You keep the house,” the woman says.
“Thanks. I knew you would let me keep it,” the man says with a sigh of relief and opens a folder on the table between them. “I’ve worked it out. Here’s a cheque for 5 Lakhs. I’ll take over all your EMIs and your part of the loan. Have a look at the papers and sign.”
The woman signs the papers without reading, picks up the cheque and puts it in her purse.
“The car. You want to keep it?”
“Of course. It’s on my name. I got the loan, remember!”
“Please. Let’s not start yours and mine again. We agreed the split would be as amicable as possible.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says a bit contrite.
“It’s just that I thought you’d like to buy a new one.”
“No. I like the Santro.”
“Okay. I’ll make do with my old bike for a few days. Then I’ll go in for the SUV I always wanted.”
The woman looks at the wall-clock. “Oh my God! It’s ten thirty already. The packers and movers will be here any moment. Let’s hurry and finish it off once and for all!”
“Okay. Let’s go room by room,” the man says. He gives the woman a notepad and a pen, “You better write it down, so you can tell the packers.”
“You write,” the woman says.
“Okay. Let’s start with the living room.”
“The TV, DVD, Music System – you can keep everything. I only want all the beautiful wrought iron furniture I’ve specially got made.”
“At least leave me a couple of chairs and a table!” the man pleads.
“Oh, come on! When will you understand? It’s a whole set! You can buy the cheap molded stuff you always liked.”
“Okay. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
“I’ll take the microwave and dishwasher; and some good crockery and cutlery. You keep the stainless steel stuff which you love for its utilitarian value.”
“Don’t be sarcastic!” the man snaps.
“I’m not,” the woman answers, “I’m sick and tired of your ‘Value For Money’ obsession. You never like anything elegant and refined.”
“I prefer to drink the best scotch in a stainless steel tumbler rather than a third rate whisky served in fancy cut-glass!”
“So go ahead Cheapie! Once I leave you can eat out of earthenware bowls and sit on straw mats for all I care! But I like classy stuff. Oh, yes; I’m taking the new carpet you’ve kept packed inside, those new lace curtains and all the curios.”
“Sure. Take anything you want. Except my books!”
“Books! I don’t want any of your books,” the woman says, “That’s all you’ve done. Buy books and wallow in them. With the money you’ve squandered on your books you could have bought me a diamond, the solitaire I wanted for my last birthday.”
“Please Anju! Let’s not start again.”
“Okay Abhi. I’m sorry. Let’s get all this over with as quickly as possible and part as good friends.”
And so they go about it, without a trace of acrimony, scrupulously and systematically, room by room, cupboard by cupboard, item by item – clothes, air conditioner, computer, washing machine, furniture, beds, linen, everything; even the playthings and investments they had diligently accumulated for the baby they had planned to have after they both were well established in their careers – each and every asset in the house is meticulously divided between the two and the woman’s items are segregated, packed and loaded in the truck by the packers.
“Thanks for making it so easy,” the woman says.
“You too!” the man says.
“No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings! It’s best for both of us.”
“I know. We were mismatched, just not compatible, that’s all.”
“There were good times too!”
“Yes.”
“It had to happen. I’m so happy it’s happened so amicably.”
“Me too. Bye Abhi. Take care,” the woman says and calls out, “Dolly! Dolly!”
A cute and fluffy little snow-white Lhasa Apso dog, who till now was sitting quietly in the balcony, runs up to the woman, excitedly wagging its tail. The woman lovingly picks up the adorable little dog in her arms and begins to walk towards the door.
“Wait. Where are you taking Dolly?” asks the man apprehensively.
“With me, of course,” the woman says.
“No, you’re not! Dolly stays with me!” the man says firmly.
“How can she stay with you?”
“What do you mean ‘how can she stay with me’? This is her house. She will stay here like she has stayed all these days. I’ll look after her.”
“No. I’m taking Dolly with me. Look how she’s cuddling in my arms.”
“She cuddles in my arms too! Dolly stays with me.You can’t take her.”
“I’m taking her. Try stopping me!” the woman says defiantly and moves towards the door.
In a flash, the man rushes to the door and blocks her way. The dog senses the tension and stiffens.
“Look, you’re scaring her,” the woman says.
“Give her to me,” the man says, takes Dolly in his arms and begins baby-talking to her, petting her and gently fondling her neck lovingly with his hand. The dog relaxes, snuggles and begins licking his hands.
“Be reasonable, Abhi,” the woman says. “I always assumed Dolly would be coming with me. That’s why I’ve found a ground floor flat with a small garden where she can play. She feels cooped up here and you’ll find it difficult to look after her.”
“How can you assume such things? She’s staying with me. I’ll look after her. You don’t worry.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Abhi! Give her to me please.”
“No. Dolly stays here with me.”
“I’m not going without her.”
“Don’t go.”
“What do you mean ‘Don’t go’! We had agreed to the separation. That we would work out things amicably. That there would be no acrimony or rancor and we would always remain good friends. Then why this bitterness at the last moment? Please give Dolly to me.”
“No. Dolly stays with me. I can’t live without her.”
“I too can’t live without her.”
“Then stay here!”
“Okay. I’ll stay put right here,” the woman says defiantly. “I’m not moving an inch from here till such time you don’t let me take Dolly with me.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
In the evening, the man and the woman are playing with their cute little dog, Dolly, on the lush green lawns of their residential complex.
Epilogue
Three years ago when our protagonists, the man and the woman, newly married, were in Shillong for their honeymoon, their jolly dog-loving uncle, a retired Colonel, presented them with a beautiful month old baby female Lhasa Apso pup as a wedding gift. He had already named her Dolly. The Colonel’s wife scolded him saying that the pet would encumber the young couple’s married life. In fact, the darling pet saved their marriage. She turned out to be their bundle of joy.
BUNDLE OF JOY – A fiction short story by VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Monkey Trap
THE MONKEY TRAP
BY
VIKRAM KARVE
“And what are we doing tomorrow?” I asked my uncle.
“Let’s catch some monkeys,” he said.
“Monkeys?” I asked excitedly.
“Yes,” my uncle said and smiled,” And if you catch one you can take him home as a pet.”
“A monkey! As a pet?” I asked in astonishment.
“Why not?” my uncle said. “The monkeys here are quite small and very cute. And once you train them, they become very friendly and obedient. An ideal pet.”
And so, next morning, at the crack of dawn we sailed off from Haddo wharf in Port Blair in a large motorboat. Soon we were crossing the Duncan Passage, moving due south; the densely forested Little Andaman island to our right, the sea calm like a mirror. I began to feel sea-sick, so I stood on the foc’sle deck, right at the front end of the boat, enjoying the refreshing sea-spray, occasionally tasting my salty lips.
I looked in admiration, almost in awe, at uncle who stood rock-steady on the bridge, truly a majestic figure. He signaled to me and I rushed up to the bridge.
“Vijay, it’s time to prepare the monkey traps,” he said.
“Monkey-Traps ?” I asked confused.
“Tito will show you,” he said. “You must learn to make them yourself.”
Tito, my uncle’s odd-job-man, was sitting on the deck, seaman’s knife in hand, amidst a heap of green coconuts. He punctured a coconut, put it to his lips and drank its water, then began scooping out a small hollow. I took out my seaman’s knife and joined in enthusiastically. The coconut water tasted sweet.
“Keep the hole small,” my uncle shouted over my shoulder, “and hollow the coconut well.”
“But how will we catch monkeys with this?” I asked.
“You will see in the evening,” he said. “Now get on with the job.”
We reached a densely forested island at five in the evening. It was almost dark. The sun sets early in these eastern longitudes. And soon we set up our monkey-traps. Each hollowed-out coconut was filled with a mixture of boiled rice and sweet jaggery (gur) through the small hole. Then the coconut was chained to a stake which was driven firmly into the ground. Then we hid in the bushes in pin-drop silence, waiting in anticipation.
Suddenly there was rattling sound. My uncle switched on his torch. A monkey was struggling, one hand trapped inside the coconut. In an instant, Tito had thrown a gunny-bag over the monkey and within minutes we had the monkey nicely secured inside.
By the time we lit the campfire on the cool soft sands of the beach, we had captured three monkeys.
My uncle put his arm around my shoulder and, “Vijay, you know why the monkey gets trapped?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because of its greed.”
He picked up a hollowed-out coconut and said, “Look at this hole. It is just big enough so that the monkey’s hand can go in, but too small for full fist filled with rice to come out. Because his greed won’t allow him to let go of the rice and take out his hand, the monkey remains trapped, a victim of his own greed, until he is captured; forever a captive of his greed.”
“The monkey cannot see that freedom without rice is more valuable that capture with it.”
My uncle looked at Tito and commanded, “Free the monkeys.” And, one by one, the monkeys jumped out of their gunny bags and started running, with one hand still stuck in a coconut. It was a really funny sight.
“There is a lesson for us to learn from this,” my uncle said. “That’s why I brought you here to show you all this.”
I looked at my uncle. Ranjit Singh. A magnificent man. Over six feet tall. Well-built. Standing erect in his khaki uniform, stroking his handsome beard with his left hand, his right hand gripping a swagger-stick which he gently tapped on his thigh. As he surveyed the scenic surroundings - the moonlight sea, the swaying Causarina trees, the silver sands of the beach in between - he looked majestic, like a king cherishing his domain. Indeed he was like a king here. For he was the Chief Forest Officer, in-charge of the entire islands.
Uncle Ranjit was an exception in our family—the odd-man out. My father always said that he was the most intelligent of all brothers. But whereas all of them were busy earning money in Mumbai and Delhi, uncle Ranjit had chosen to be different. To everybody’s surprise, uncle Ranjit had joined the Forest Service when he could have easily become an Engineer, Doctor, CA or even a top business executive. For he had always topped all examinations - first class first in merit, whether it be the school or the university.
“So, Vijay. You like it here?” he asked.
“It’s lovely, uncle,” I answered. “And thank you so much for the lovely holiday, spending so much time with me. In Mumbai no one has any time for me. I feel so lonely.”
“Why?” he asked, with curiosity.
“Mummy and Daddy both come home late from office. Then there are parties, business dinners, tours. And on Sundays they sleep, exhausted. Unless there is a business-meeting in the club or golf with the boss.”
Uncle Ranjit laughed, “The Monkey Trap! They are all caught in monkey traps of their own making. Slaves of their greed. Trapped by their desires. Caught in the rat race. Wallowing in their golden cages, rattling their jewellery, their golden chains.”
As I thought over Ranjit uncle’s words I realized how right he was. Most of the people I knew in Mumbai were just like that. Trapped by their greed. Chasing rainbows. In search of an elusive happiness. Planning for a happiness in the future which may never be fulfilled instead of enjoying the present.
“Happiness is liking what you do as well as doing what you like,” uncle Ranjit said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Happiness is not a station which never arrives, but the manner in which you travel in life.” He paused, and asked me, “Tell me Vijay, what do you want to do in life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Vijay. You are fifteen now. By next year you have to decide. Tell me what are your plans?”
“It depends on my percentage,” I said truthfully.
“I am sure you will get more than ninety percent marks in your board exams,” he said. “Assume you top the exams. Secure a place in the merit list. Then what will you do?”
“I’ll go in for Engineering. Computers, IT.”
“Computers, IT! Why?” uncle Ranjit asked. “Why not Arts, Literature? Something creative? Something you would enjoy doing.”
“Job prospects,” I answered.
“Oh!” he said. “And then?”
“Management. An MBA from a top business school. Or I may even go abroad for higher studies.”
“Why?”
“Qualifications.”
“And why do you want so many qualifications?”
“To get the best job,” I answered.
“And earn a lot of money,” uncle Ranjit prompted.
“Of course,” I said. “So that I can enjoy life.”
Uncle Ranjit laughed, “My dear Vijay. Aren’t you enjoying life right now. At this very moment. What about me? Am I am not enjoying life?”
He smiled and asked, “ Vijay, you know what Maxim Gorky once said :
‘When work is a pleasure, life is a joy.
When work is a duty, life is slavery.’ ”
“Slavery!” I exclaimed, understanding the message he was trying to give me.
“Slavery to one’s elusive desires, one’s greed. Just like the monkey trap.”
“The Monkey Trap!” we both said in unison, in chorus.
And so, I decided to do what I really wanted to. To achieve true inner freedom and contentment..
And guess what I am today?
Well, I am a teacher. I teach philosophy. And let me tell you that I truly enjoy every moment of it. It’s a life of sheer joy and delight - being with my students, earning their respect and adulation, nurturing my innate quest for knowledge and feeling a sense of achievement that I am contributing my bit to society.
I shall never forget uncle Ranjit and that crucial visit to the forests of the Andamans, the turning point, or indeed the defining moment, of my life.
Dear Readers (especially my young friends on the verge choosing a career path); whenever you reach the crossroads of your life, remember the ‘Monkey-Trap’.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
BY
VIKRAM KARVE
“And what are we doing tomorrow?” I asked my uncle.
“Let’s catch some monkeys,” he said.
“Monkeys?” I asked excitedly.
“Yes,” my uncle said and smiled,” And if you catch one you can take him home as a pet.”
“A monkey! As a pet?” I asked in astonishment.
“Why not?” my uncle said. “The monkeys here are quite small and very cute. And once you train them, they become very friendly and obedient. An ideal pet.”
And so, next morning, at the crack of dawn we sailed off from Haddo wharf in Port Blair in a large motorboat. Soon we were crossing the Duncan Passage, moving due south; the densely forested Little Andaman island to our right, the sea calm like a mirror. I began to feel sea-sick, so I stood on the foc’sle deck, right at the front end of the boat, enjoying the refreshing sea-spray, occasionally tasting my salty lips.
I looked in admiration, almost in awe, at uncle who stood rock-steady on the bridge, truly a majestic figure. He signaled to me and I rushed up to the bridge.
“Vijay, it’s time to prepare the monkey traps,” he said.
“Monkey-Traps ?” I asked confused.
“Tito will show you,” he said. “You must learn to make them yourself.”
Tito, my uncle’s odd-job-man, was sitting on the deck, seaman’s knife in hand, amidst a heap of green coconuts. He punctured a coconut, put it to his lips and drank its water, then began scooping out a small hollow. I took out my seaman’s knife and joined in enthusiastically. The coconut water tasted sweet.
“Keep the hole small,” my uncle shouted over my shoulder, “and hollow the coconut well.”
“But how will we catch monkeys with this?” I asked.
“You will see in the evening,” he said. “Now get on with the job.”
We reached a densely forested island at five in the evening. It was almost dark. The sun sets early in these eastern longitudes. And soon we set up our monkey-traps. Each hollowed-out coconut was filled with a mixture of boiled rice and sweet jaggery (gur) through the small hole. Then the coconut was chained to a stake which was driven firmly into the ground. Then we hid in the bushes in pin-drop silence, waiting in anticipation.
Suddenly there was rattling sound. My uncle switched on his torch. A monkey was struggling, one hand trapped inside the coconut. In an instant, Tito had thrown a gunny-bag over the monkey and within minutes we had the monkey nicely secured inside.
By the time we lit the campfire on the cool soft sands of the beach, we had captured three monkeys.
My uncle put his arm around my shoulder and, “Vijay, you know why the monkey gets trapped?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because of its greed.”
He picked up a hollowed-out coconut and said, “Look at this hole. It is just big enough so that the monkey’s hand can go in, but too small for full fist filled with rice to come out. Because his greed won’t allow him to let go of the rice and take out his hand, the monkey remains trapped, a victim of his own greed, until he is captured; forever a captive of his greed.”
“The monkey cannot see that freedom without rice is more valuable that capture with it.”
My uncle looked at Tito and commanded, “Free the monkeys.” And, one by one, the monkeys jumped out of their gunny bags and started running, with one hand still stuck in a coconut. It was a really funny sight.
“There is a lesson for us to learn from this,” my uncle said. “That’s why I brought you here to show you all this.”
I looked at my uncle. Ranjit Singh. A magnificent man. Over six feet tall. Well-built. Standing erect in his khaki uniform, stroking his handsome beard with his left hand, his right hand gripping a swagger-stick which he gently tapped on his thigh. As he surveyed the scenic surroundings - the moonlight sea, the swaying Causarina trees, the silver sands of the beach in between - he looked majestic, like a king cherishing his domain. Indeed he was like a king here. For he was the Chief Forest Officer, in-charge of the entire islands.
Uncle Ranjit was an exception in our family—the odd-man out. My father always said that he was the most intelligent of all brothers. But whereas all of them were busy earning money in Mumbai and Delhi, uncle Ranjit had chosen to be different. To everybody’s surprise, uncle Ranjit had joined the Forest Service when he could have easily become an Engineer, Doctor, CA or even a top business executive. For he had always topped all examinations - first class first in merit, whether it be the school or the university.
“So, Vijay. You like it here?” he asked.
“It’s lovely, uncle,” I answered. “And thank you so much for the lovely holiday, spending so much time with me. In Mumbai no one has any time for me. I feel so lonely.”
“Why?” he asked, with curiosity.
“Mummy and Daddy both come home late from office. Then there are parties, business dinners, tours. And on Sundays they sleep, exhausted. Unless there is a business-meeting in the club or golf with the boss.”
Uncle Ranjit laughed, “The Monkey Trap! They are all caught in monkey traps of their own making. Slaves of their greed. Trapped by their desires. Caught in the rat race. Wallowing in their golden cages, rattling their jewellery, their golden chains.”
As I thought over Ranjit uncle’s words I realized how right he was. Most of the people I knew in Mumbai were just like that. Trapped by their greed. Chasing rainbows. In search of an elusive happiness. Planning for a happiness in the future which may never be fulfilled instead of enjoying the present.
“Happiness is liking what you do as well as doing what you like,” uncle Ranjit said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Happiness is not a station which never arrives, but the manner in which you travel in life.” He paused, and asked me, “Tell me Vijay, what do you want to do in life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Vijay. You are fifteen now. By next year you have to decide. Tell me what are your plans?”
“It depends on my percentage,” I said truthfully.
“I am sure you will get more than ninety percent marks in your board exams,” he said. “Assume you top the exams. Secure a place in the merit list. Then what will you do?”
“I’ll go in for Engineering. Computers, IT.”
“Computers, IT! Why?” uncle Ranjit asked. “Why not Arts, Literature? Something creative? Something you would enjoy doing.”
“Job prospects,” I answered.
“Oh!” he said. “And then?”
“Management. An MBA from a top business school. Or I may even go abroad for higher studies.”
“Why?”
“Qualifications.”
“And why do you want so many qualifications?”
“To get the best job,” I answered.
“And earn a lot of money,” uncle Ranjit prompted.
“Of course,” I said. “So that I can enjoy life.”
Uncle Ranjit laughed, “My dear Vijay. Aren’t you enjoying life right now. At this very moment. What about me? Am I am not enjoying life?”
He smiled and asked, “ Vijay, you know what Maxim Gorky once said :
‘When work is a pleasure, life is a joy.
When work is a duty, life is slavery.’ ”
“Slavery!” I exclaimed, understanding the message he was trying to give me.
“Slavery to one’s elusive desires, one’s greed. Just like the monkey trap.”
“The Monkey Trap!” we both said in unison, in chorus.
And so, I decided to do what I really wanted to. To achieve true inner freedom and contentment..
And guess what I am today?
Well, I am a teacher. I teach philosophy. And let me tell you that I truly enjoy every moment of it. It’s a life of sheer joy and delight - being with my students, earning their respect and adulation, nurturing my innate quest for knowledge and feeling a sense of achievement that I am contributing my bit to society.
I shall never forget uncle Ranjit and that crucial visit to the forests of the Andamans, the turning point, or indeed the defining moment, of my life.
Dear Readers (especially my young friends on the verge choosing a career path); whenever you reach the crossroads of your life, remember the ‘Monkey-Trap’.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, April 03, 2006
Confluence
CONFLUENCE
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Winter. Early morning. Chill in the air. I stand alone on the metre gauge side of the lonely island platform of Mettupalaiyam Railway Station and stare at the peaks of the Blue Mountains (the Nilgiris) silhouetted in a veil of mist in the distance.
Nothing much has changed here since the last time I came here on my way to Ooty. Almost 30 years ago. The place, the things, the people – everything looks the same. As if frozen in time.
But for me there is a world of difference. Then I was a young bride, full of inchoate zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the romantic journey on the mountain train, on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.
And now! The same place which then felt so exciting now feels so gloomy. Strange. But true. What’s outside just doesn’t matter; what’s inside does. I try not to reminisce. Remembering good times when I am in misery causes me unimaginable agony.
I look at my watch. 7.30 A.M. The small blue toy train pushed by its hissing steam engine comes on the platform. Dot on time. As it was then. The same December morning. The same chill in the air. Then I had the warmth of my husband’s arm around me. Now I feel the bitter cold penetrating within me.
I drag my feet across the platform towards the mountain train. Scared, anxious, fear in my stomach, I experience a strange uneasiness, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of ominous helplessness - wondering what my new life would have in store for me.
I sit alone in the First Class compartment right in front of the train. Waiting for the train to start. And take me to the point to no return. Wishing that all this is just a dream. But knowing it is not.
And suddenly, Avinash enters. We stare at each other in disbelief. Time stands still. Till Avinash speaks, “Roopa! What are you doing here?”
I do not answer. Because I cannot. For I am swept by a wave of melancholic despair. My vocal cords numbed by emotional pain. And as I look helplessly at Avinash, I realize that there is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
“You look good when you get emotional,” Avinash says sitting opposite me.
In the vulnerable emotional state that I am in, I know that I will have a breakdown if I continue sitting with Avinash. I want to get out, run away; but suddenly, the train moves. I am trapped. So I decide to put on a brave front, and say to Avinash, “Coming from Chennai?”
“Bangalore,” he says, “ I’d gone for some work there.”
“You stay here? In Ooty?” I ask with a tremor of trepidation for I do not want to run into Avinash again and again; and let him know that I had made a big mistake by not marrying him - that I had made the wrong choice by dumping him, the man I loved, in search of a ‘better’ life.
“I stay near Kotagiri,” Avinash says.
“Kotagiri?” I ask relieved.
“Yes, I own a tea-estate there.”
“A tea estate?”
“Yes. I am a planter.”
Now I really regret my blunder 30 years ago. Indeed I had made the wrong choice.
“Your family – wife, children?” I probe, curious.
“I didn’t marry,” he says curtly. “There’s no family; only me. All by myself.”
“Oh, Avinash. You should have got married. Why didn’t you?”
“Strange you should be asking me that!” he says.
“Oh my God! Because of me?”
Avinash changes the subject, “I’ll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.” He pauses, then says, “And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty? At the height of winter! To freeze there!”
“No,” I say, “ I’m going to Ketti.”
“Ketti ?” he asks with derisive surprise.
“Yes. What’s wrong with going to Ketti ?” I protest.
“There are only two places you can go to in Ketti. The School and the old-age home. And the school is closed in December,” Avinash says nonchalantly, looking out of the window.
I say nothing. I can’t. I suffer his words in silence.
“Unless of course you own a bungalow there!” he says turning towards me and mocking me once again.
The cat is out of the bag. I cannot describe the sense of humiliation I feel sitting there with Avinash. The tables seem to have turned. Or have they?
There are only the two of us in the tiny compartment. As the train begins to climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closes the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange sort of intimacy. I remember the lovely moments with Avinash. A woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart.
“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Avinash says, “but the bitterness just came out.”
We talk. Avinash is easy to talk to and I am astonished how effortlessly my words come tumbling out.
I tell him everything. The story of my life. How I had struggled, sacrificed, taken every care. But still, everything had gone wrong. Widowed at 28. Abandoned by my only son at 52. Banished to an old-age home. So that ‘they’ could sell off our house and emigrate to Australia. ‘They’ - my son and that scheming wife of his.
“I have lost everything,” I cry, unable to control my self. “Avinash, I have lost everything.”
“No, Roopa,” Avinash says. “You haven’t lost everything. You have got me! I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”
Avinash takes me in his comforting arms and I experience the same feeling, the same zest, I felt thirty years ago, on my first romantic journey, on this same mountain toy train, on my way to my first honeymoon.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Winter. Early morning. Chill in the air. I stand alone on the metre gauge side of the lonely island platform of Mettupalaiyam Railway Station and stare at the peaks of the Blue Mountains (the Nilgiris) silhouetted in a veil of mist in the distance.
Nothing much has changed here since the last time I came here on my way to Ooty. Almost 30 years ago. The place, the things, the people – everything looks the same. As if frozen in time.
But for me there is a world of difference. Then I was a young bride, full of inchoate zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the romantic journey on the mountain train, on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.
And now! The same place which then felt so exciting now feels so gloomy. Strange. But true. What’s outside just doesn’t matter; what’s inside does. I try not to reminisce. Remembering good times when I am in misery causes me unimaginable agony.
I look at my watch. 7.30 A.M. The small blue toy train pushed by its hissing steam engine comes on the platform. Dot on time. As it was then. The same December morning. The same chill in the air. Then I had the warmth of my husband’s arm around me. Now I feel the bitter cold penetrating within me.
I drag my feet across the platform towards the mountain train. Scared, anxious, fear in my stomach, I experience a strange uneasiness, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of ominous helplessness - wondering what my new life would have in store for me.
I sit alone in the First Class compartment right in front of the train. Waiting for the train to start. And take me to the point to no return. Wishing that all this is just a dream. But knowing it is not.
And suddenly, Avinash enters. We stare at each other in disbelief. Time stands still. Till Avinash speaks, “Roopa! What are you doing here?”
I do not answer. Because I cannot. For I am swept by a wave of melancholic despair. My vocal cords numbed by emotional pain. And as I look helplessly at Avinash, I realize that there is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
“You look good when you get emotional,” Avinash says sitting opposite me.
In the vulnerable emotional state that I am in, I know that I will have a breakdown if I continue sitting with Avinash. I want to get out, run away; but suddenly, the train moves. I am trapped. So I decide to put on a brave front, and say to Avinash, “Coming from Chennai?”
“Bangalore,” he says, “ I’d gone for some work there.”
“You stay here? In Ooty?” I ask with a tremor of trepidation for I do not want to run into Avinash again and again; and let him know that I had made a big mistake by not marrying him - that I had made the wrong choice by dumping him, the man I loved, in search of a ‘better’ life.
“I stay near Kotagiri,” Avinash says.
“Kotagiri?” I ask relieved.
“Yes, I own a tea-estate there.”
“A tea estate?”
“Yes. I am a planter.”
Now I really regret my blunder 30 years ago. Indeed I had made the wrong choice.
“Your family – wife, children?” I probe, curious.
“I didn’t marry,” he says curtly. “There’s no family; only me. All by myself.”
“Oh, Avinash. You should have got married. Why didn’t you?”
“Strange you should be asking me that!” he says.
“Oh my God! Because of me?”
Avinash changes the subject, “I’ll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.” He pauses, then says, “And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty? At the height of winter! To freeze there!”
“No,” I say, “ I’m going to Ketti.”
“Ketti ?” he asks with derisive surprise.
“Yes. What’s wrong with going to Ketti ?” I protest.
“There are only two places you can go to in Ketti. The School and the old-age home. And the school is closed in December,” Avinash says nonchalantly, looking out of the window.
I say nothing. I can’t. I suffer his words in silence.
“Unless of course you own a bungalow there!” he says turning towards me and mocking me once again.
The cat is out of the bag. I cannot describe the sense of humiliation I feel sitting there with Avinash. The tables seem to have turned. Or have they?
There are only the two of us in the tiny compartment. As the train begins to climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closes the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange sort of intimacy. I remember the lovely moments with Avinash. A woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart.
“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Avinash says, “but the bitterness just came out.”
We talk. Avinash is easy to talk to and I am astonished how effortlessly my words come tumbling out.
I tell him everything. The story of my life. How I had struggled, sacrificed, taken every care. But still, everything had gone wrong. Widowed at 28. Abandoned by my only son at 52. Banished to an old-age home. So that ‘they’ could sell off our house and emigrate to Australia. ‘They’ - my son and that scheming wife of his.
“I have lost everything,” I cry, unable to control my self. “Avinash, I have lost everything.”
“No, Roopa,” Avinash says. “You haven’t lost everything. You have got me! I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”
Avinash takes me in his comforting arms and I experience the same feeling, the same zest, I felt thirty years ago, on my first romantic journey, on this same mountain toy train, on my way to my first honeymoon.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Looking Back by Dr. DK Karve - Book Review of the autobiography of Maharshi Karve
Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve
The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936
Looking Back by Dhondo Keshav Karve.
(The Autobiography of Maharshi Karve with a preface by Frederick J. Gould)
Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.
In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable. Dr. DK Karve writes a crisp, flowing narrative of his life interspersed with his views and anecdotes in simple, straightforward style which facilitates the reader to visualize through the author’s eyes the places, period, people and events pertaining to his life and times and the trials and tribulations he faced and struggled to conquer.
Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes in crisp style.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.
He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.
Epilogue
I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. My mother tells me that I featured in a films division documentary on him during his centenary celebrations in 1958 ( I must have been barely two maybe one and a half years old ) and there is a photograph of him and his great grand children where I feature. It is from people and mainly from books that I learn of his pioneering work in transforming the destiny of the Indian Woman and I thought I should share this.
I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, men and women, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, Pune, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography. I trust that SNDT and Cummins College of Engineering have included a module on the life and work of Maharshi Karve in their course curriculum for the benefit of their students to facilitate them to learn and imbibe some of his sterling values and consolidate his work.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vwkarve@sify.com
The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936
Looking Back by Dhondo Keshav Karve.
(The Autobiography of Maharshi Karve with a preface by Frederick J. Gould)
Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.
In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable. Dr. DK Karve writes a crisp, flowing narrative of his life interspersed with his views and anecdotes in simple, straightforward style which facilitates the reader to visualize through the author’s eyes the places, period, people and events pertaining to his life and times and the trials and tribulations he faced and struggled to conquer.
Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes in crisp style.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.
He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.
Epilogue
I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. My mother tells me that I featured in a films division documentary on him during his centenary celebrations in 1958 ( I must have been barely two maybe one and a half years old ) and there is a photograph of him and his great grand children where I feature. It is from people and mainly from books that I learn of his pioneering work in transforming the destiny of the Indian Woman and I thought I should share this.
I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, men and women, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, Pune, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography. I trust that SNDT and Cummins College of Engineering have included a module on the life and work of Maharshi Karve in their course curriculum for the benefit of their students to facilitate them to learn and imbibe some of his sterling values and consolidate his work.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vwkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The Woman on the Train - A short story by Vikram Karve
THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN
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’s 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 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 he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much,” Lata says. “Looking so good last weekend.”
Lata is my true friend ….. the only person 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 mush 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 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 maths 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 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 Champak 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 Champak 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 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’d 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. Almost nineteen years. The first time since passing 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.”
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 he 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 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. He must have got upset - really 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?”
“Sure.”
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’ type 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.
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-rupees 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 grotesque 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. 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.
He puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. But I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
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’s 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 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 he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much,” Lata says. “Looking so good last weekend.”
Lata is my true friend ….. the only person 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 mush 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 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 maths 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 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 Champak 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 Champak 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 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’d 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. Almost nineteen years. The first time since passing 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.”
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 he 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 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. He must have got upset - really 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?”
“Sure.”
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’ type 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.
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-rupees 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 grotesque 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. 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.
He puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. But I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Lovedale by Vikram Karve
LOVEDALE
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri mountain railway in South India. There is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a school known for its rich tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “ It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. No more excuses.”
“Of course. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did when Daddy was there.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after both of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When ?”
“You could have written, called her up.”
“How could I ?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“ ‘Baby’ ! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her ‘Baby’”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“I don’t. It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, that we will see later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“My mother-in-law – what will she feel ?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“Poor thing. Where will she go ?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there - it’s an ideal place for senior citizens.”
“An Old Age Home ?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel. She was so good to me, looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says and starts sobbing.
“Don’t get sentimental. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did. I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. A disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. You don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“No. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
“Lovedale’s coming,” the woman gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence waiting for Lovedale to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train from Ooty – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hated boarding school didn’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny – she will be all alone. No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let him go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Kavita. The train is going to leave,” the man says firmly to the young woman.
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be alright,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life, the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise,” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness.
And Lovedale station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri mountain railway in South India. There is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a school known for its rich tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “ It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. No more excuses.”
“Of course. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did when Daddy was there.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after both of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When ?”
“You could have written, called her up.”
“How could I ?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“ ‘Baby’ ! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her ‘Baby’”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“I don’t. It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, that we will see later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“My mother-in-law – what will she feel ?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“Poor thing. Where will she go ?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there - it’s an ideal place for senior citizens.”
“An Old Age Home ?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel. She was so good to me, looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says and starts sobbing.
“Don’t get sentimental. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did. I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. A disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. You don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“No. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
“Lovedale’s coming,” the woman gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence waiting for Lovedale to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train from Ooty – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hated boarding school didn’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny – she will be all alone. No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let him go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Kavita. The train is going to leave,” the man says firmly to the young woman.
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be alright,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life, the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise,” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness.
And Lovedale station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
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