Archive for February 13th, 2019

Valentine’s Day Story

February 13, 2019


A Thrilling Romance By Vikram Karve 

From my Creative Writing Archives

One my earliest amateurish attempts at creative writing  a story I wrote around 26 years ago  sometime in the early 1990’s. 

It is a longish story  written at a time when there was no internet, no blogs, no ebooks, no online reading, no Facebook, no Twitter, no Google, and most importantly, no mobile cell phones. 

And yes – those days – 26 years ago – a thing called Telegram existed – which was scrapped after the proliferation of digital communication. 

It was a time when you had to read magazines and books on paper for short fiction and when people had the time and patience to read. 

Dear Reader – Please remember this story happened 26 years ago  in the early 1990’s.

So relax, take your time, and read this old style romance  I am sure you will like it. 

Wish You a Happy Valentine’s Day…


Vandana dragged me to the New Year’s Eve party at our Club.

“I’d feel good,” she said.

I had been wallowing in my grief too long – and it was high time I forgot the tragic events of my past and got on with my life.

Besides, she could not go alone, so would I be good enough to escort her?

The moment we entered, Vandana was whisked away to the dance-floor by one of those young desperate bachelors, who are present in every such party.

I didn’t mind it at all.

In fact, I felt relieved for I was in no mood to dance.

I still had not forgotten the day when fate had cruelly snatched away my beloved Rajashree from my life.

I picked up a glass of whisky from the bar and took up a strong tactical position with my back to the wall from where I could watch the entrance, the dance-floor and all the happenings at the ball in a discreet manner without being observed.

I saw her almost at once.

Her snow-white dress, unusual and eye-catching in the sea of sober blacks and grays, skin-tight, hip-hugging.

She was only about ten feet away, but she had her back to me, and I did no more than register a general approval.

Then she turned, and I saw her face.

And the impact was so overwhelming that I heard myself gasp…!!!

She turned further, and looked at me – her gaze focusing directly at me.

And for just that fraction of a second I thought that it was all a bad dream – for there was my very own Rajashree herself – right in front of me…!!!

The same big dancing eyes, set in the same way, in the same rather small face.

The same high cheekbones.

The same habit of lifting the chin with the head slightly thrown back.

It was only for a fraction of a second, of course.

Then – I began to see the difference.

She was slightly taller than Rajashree.

The big eyes had no gray in them.

Not even a hint of the greenish gray.

Her eyes were pure brown.

And her complexion was that infinitesimal different.

The texture or her hair.


Almost identical.

But just that slight difference.

I was staring at her brazenly, with undisguised directness – maybe – even too rudely.

At first – she realized that I was looking at her.

Then – she accepted the fact of being looked at.

And finally – she began to look at me in return.

Then – she smiled at the frank admiration in my eyes.

I must have been so engrossed marveling at the object of my attention – that I hadn’t sensed Vandana come by my side silently and curiously observing the goings on with interest.

Embarrassed, I tried to change my focus, and look elsewhere.

“Dance over?” I asked.

“That Pongo! He thought he was on a parade ground! Stepped on my toes. I walked out…” Vandana paused, and asked, “What were you up to?”

“Nothing. Just having a drink.”

“Vivek,” Vandana said.” You’ve got this delightful habit.”

“What habit?”

“You look at a woman in an insistent suggestive sort of way which is worth a hundred compliments.”

“No,” I protested, blushing terribly.

“Come on, Vivek,” Vandana said taking my arm. “I’ve even seen you looking at me like that. Eyeing me blatantly, yearningly, almost hungrily. So many times. Giving me those canny looks when you thought I wasn’t noticing.”

I felt ashamed.

I felt ashamed of having eyed Vandana.

Now I felt embarrassed at having eyed that woman in the snow-white dress.

So openly.

Staring at her.


As if I was in a trance.

She was still standing there.

“Why don’t you ask her for a dance?” Vandana said.

“Who?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

“You know who…!!!” Vandana said, gesturing at the woman, “Her…!!! The object of your attention – or rather – the object of your “affection”. The woman in white…!!!”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” Vandana persisted.

“I am very sentimental, Vandana. I cry easily,” I said, paused for a moment, and then I said, “If she refuses me, I’ll be shattered.”

“But why should she refuse you, Vivek? It’s New Year’s Eve. And she has come here to dance.” Vandana asked.

“I don’t know. I’m scared. I don’t have the guts to go and ask her.”

“I think you’re really cute, Vivek. And handsome. Let’s us dance. Just both of us. Forget her. Think of me instead!”

But – I could not forget her.

The woman in white.

And – I could not forget Rajashree.

My late wife.

And – I could not forget the striking similarity and resemblance.

I cannot begin to describe my emotion as I danced with Vandana – with the woman in white mesmerizing me in my mind’s eye.

But as we danced, I must have pulled Vandana close, my mind elsewhere.

For when the lights went out to ring in the New Year, I found Vandana tightly embracing me.

And kissing me passionately.

I kissed her back.

For who can resist a full-blooded kiss of a passionate woman in the prime of her life.

On New Year’s day, I got up early in the morning, put on my track suit for my customary jog down to Sims Park.

The air was so pure that I could easily discern that familiar fruity whiff of perfume even at a distance.

It was her!

The woman of my dreams…!!!

Sporting Rajashree’s favourite perfume.

The woman in white…!!!

Now she was wearing jeans, jacket and black leather gloves and walking briskly down the slope in the direction of Coonoor.

I discreetly followed her.

All the way down to the railway station.

The morning passenger train to Ooty was already standing on the platform.

She sat right in front, facing forward in the first car.

I sat diagonally opposite, but way behind, in order to get a good view but remain undetected.

She got down at Lovedale, the station just before Ooty.

And as she walked across the platform I noticed several things which had not struck me the New Year’s Eve party.

The resemblance to Rajashree was still startling.

But she was younger than I had thought – may be 25, at the most 27 – whereas Rajashree had been 33.

One year ago.

When the cruel hand of fate snatched her away from me.

And now – this woman who had come into my life so suddenly – was also walking away.

I felt an instant urge to jump off the train and rush towards her – but I restrained myself.

And suddenly – the train started moving towards Ooty.

When I returned home to Coonoor in the evening – I found Vandana waiting for me.

She seemed livid – yes – Vandana looked very angry.

“Happy New Year…!!!” I said.

“I thought you wished me quite eloquently at the stroke of midnight…!!!” Vandana said full of sarcasm, “Have you gone crazy? Gallivanting around whole day like a zombie. In your track suit?”

I flushed in embarrassment.

“It’s good she didn’t notice you…” Vandana said, “You almost jeopardized our mission.”

“Our mission?” I said incredulously.

“I’ll explain,” Vandana said.

“Have you put me under surveillance?” I asked angrily.

“You better pull up your socks, Vivek Mathur,” Vandana said patronizingly, “You didn’t even notice me sitting right behind you in the train.”

I was stunned speechless.

Vandana had followed me in the train all the way to Ooty and I hadn’t even noticed her.

“And many mercies,” she added as an after thought, “for not getting down at Lovedale and making an ass yourself.”

“She looks like Rajashree – my late wife,” I said sheepishly.

“I know. That’s why we’ve chosen you for the assignment,” Vandana said matter-of-factly.

“Assignment?” I asked dumbfounded.

“It’s time to return where you really belong, Vivek. Into the wilderness of mirrors,” Vandana said, softly taking my hand, “One year is too long a time to be in mourning.”

My profession is a solitary one, whose sine qua non is the power of anonymity.

And that’s what we were checking out six days later, on the 6th of January, at 5 in the evening as I stood on MG Road in Bangalore watching her entering Gangaram’s – a three storeyed bookshop – one of my favorite bookstores.

It was the crucial test of anonymity.

If I passed, I got the assignment.

Suppose she recognized me – it was curtains as far as this career was concerned.

And then – I would have no choice but to return to my boring teaching job.

I entered, walked briskly up the steps, and stepped into the bookstore.

There she was.


I went across and picked up a book.

She looked up.

Our eyes met.

I felt a tremor of trepidation.

For a moment I was anxious, lest she recognize me.

But – she nonchalantly put the book she was holding back on the shelf.

And then – she casually walked away.

No trace of recognition…!!!

I felt relieved.

Or did I?

Maybe my anxiety had, in reality, been hope.

Hope that somehow she would recognize me and my assignment would be revoked by circumstance.

I followed her into the stationery and greeting cards section on the third floor.

“I want a Valentine’s Day Card…” I heard her ask, “something very special. Exclusive. Custom-made.”

“Yes, madam,” the sales girl said, “I’ll take you to the manager.”

A windfall!

What luck!

A custom-made Valentine’s Day Card.

I knew I had the case all wrapped up.

The case?

The mission.

The assignment.

Oh yes!

Let me tell you all about it.

Plainly but precisely.

The way a good soldier recalls a battle.

Not to win.

Not to lose.

Just the facts – the simple truth.

It started as a simple inquiry – a pre-matrimonial investigation.

That’s what Vandana had told me.

Rita Rao.

The girl in white.

The girl who looks like my late wife Rajashree.

She was clean.

They gave her a clean chit.

So – our client went to her father with a marriage proposal.

Rita Rao’s father was delighted.

Both the boy and the girl were only children – I mean the only child of their respective parents.

Scions of flourishing business families.

An ideal marriage.

It made business-sense too.

But Rita Rao refuses.

Rita Rao says that she won’t go in for an arranged marriage with our client Jayant.

That’s his name.

Rita says that she’ll marry the man she loves.

“Who?” asks her father.

“I don’t know,” she tells her father.

There are at least two, maybe three prospective candidates she has in mind.

But she can’t decide.

She needs time.

“Okay,” says her doting father Mr. Rao, “You decide by Valentine’s Day. Or else – I’ll announce your engagement to Mr. Jayant on the 15th of February.”

Rita Rao agrees.

Unbelievable, but true.

Those are the ways of the rich…!!!

Our client Mr. Jayant is furious with Vandana:

“You told me she’s clean. I want you to find out everything about her. I want his name. The man she intends marrying. Fast. At any cost. Don’t worry about expenses.”

“You’ll get the name, Mr. Jayant. By Valentine’s Day – the 14th of February,” Vandana assures our client.

So – I shave off my beard – and I begin shadowing and tailing Rita Rao.

“I knew she won’t recognize you,” Vandana said, as we ordered a late evening ‘tiffin’ in our favorite restaurant on MG Road, “You know the amount of dough Jayant is going to pay for this assignment, isn’t it? It is enough to last a lifetime.”

“And then?” I ventured.

“And then we go off to Seychelles for a holiday. The two of us – just you and me. The cool breeze, the pristine blue waters, the silver beaches and just the both of us,” she smiled, with a far-away look in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean us,” I said softly. “Suppose we tell our client the name of Rita Rao’s ‘Valentine’ – what will he do? I don’t understand why is he paying so much money just to know a name?”

“Don’t delve too deeply!” Vandana’s voice trailed off, as I noticed Rita Rao entering the restaurant.

A man got up and walked toward her.

The sight of Rita Rao clearly gave him great joy, for he was beaming with pleasure.

“It’s not him,” Vandana said.

“Why not?”

“Can’t you see? “They love each other – but they are not in love with each other”…!!!”

“Like us?”

“No, Vivek. There’s slight difference. You love me. But I am in love with you.”

I took Vandana’s hand – slipping my five fingers in between hers – and I said to her: “I’ll try.”

And try I did – as we cuddled very close that evening watching a romantic movie sitting in the corner seats of the movie theatre.

For the next few days we did everything possible – surveillance, bugging – but there was no clue.

Except one.

Just one small clue.

On the 31st of January, Rita Rao collected her custom-made Valentine’s Day Card and headed straight back to her bungalow in her Tea Estate near Ooty.

And then – she holed up there incommunicado.

Finally – on the 12th of February – Vandana’s ‘Greetings Telegram’ arrived.

The handwriting of the postman on the telegram was barely legible:

“Happy Birthday. See you on 14th of February at the Flower Show. Love. Valentine.”

I smiled to myself.

Vandana had signed off as ‘Valentine’ – her code-word for this mission.

I realized how much Vandana loved me.

I’d made her wait long enough.

Now – I’d seal it.

On Valentine’s Day.

At last it was Valentine’s Day.

14 February – the fourteenth day of February.

The Ooty Flower Show at the Botanical Gardens.

Celebrating the festival of lovers.

The mating season of birds.

The magnificent display of roses.

And Vandana beside me.

I had waited for this moment.

And now that the moment had come – I did not know what to do with it…!!!

I put my hand inside my overcoat and nervously gripped the diamond necklace wrapped around a bouquet of a dozen red roses.

And while taking it out I mumbled:

“Vandana, thanks for the birthday greetings telegram.”

“What telegram? I did not send you any telegram” Vandana said, with genuine surprise in her eyes.

I froze.

My mind went blank.

I stood flummoxed, holding the necklace in my hand, frozen, not knowing what to do.

Someone was tapping my back.

I turned around.

And I was stunned by what I saw in front of me.

I stood dumbstruck, shell-shocked, mesmerized – like a Zombie.

It was Rita Rao.

She was holding out the beautifully engraved Valentine Card in her hand.

“Happy Valentine’s Day…” she seemed to be saying with her dancing eyes.

Instinctively – I gave her the diamond necklace wrapped around the bouquet of red roses – and – I could see the glow of love in her eyes.

Then – I turned towards Vandana.

She quickly plucked out a yellow rose and gave it to me.

There were tears in Vandana’s eyes as she said to me:

“Take my car. The tickets are in the dashboard. Coimbatore to Mumbai – and – Mumbai to Seychelles…!!!”

Then Vandana she held out the keys – looked at both of us – and said:

“Hey, Lovebirds – Happy Valentine’s Day…!!!”

The officer at Mumbai Airport opened the passport – he saw the photo inside – and then – he had a good look at Rita.

Thumbing through the pages of Rajashree’s well-worn passport, he asked: “Rajashree Mathur?”

“Yes,” Rita answered boldly.

He stamped our passports, gave them back to us and said:

“Have a nice holiday Mr. & Mrs. Mathur. Seychelles is wonderful place.”


Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.


  1. This story is a fictional spoof, satire, pure fiction, just for fun and humor, no offence is meant to anyone, so take it with a pinch of salt and have a laugh.
  2. All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the stories are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved) 

Link to my source blog post in my Blog Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve:

This story was written by me Vikram Karve 26 years ago in 1993 and published/posted online a number of times including at urls:  and  and and  and  and  etc

Is Keeping Secrets Harmful For You…?

February 13, 2019

Sharing the link of an interesting article The Sinister Side of Secrets

Is keeping secrets harmful for you…?

Is “Secret Sorrow” worse than “Public Shame”…?

February 13, 2019


Is “secret sorrow” worse than “public shame”…?  

Around 18 years ago – during an evening walk in Mumbai – I saw a very sad scene. 

That night – I wrote this story. 

This story was translated into Marathi and featured in a magazine supplement. 

Dear Reader: 

Let me delve deep into my creative writing archives and pull out this poignant tale I wrote 18 years ago – in 2000 – one of my Mumbai Stories – for you to read…

SECRET SORROW vs PUBLIC SHAME – Fiction Story by Vikram Karve 

As the sun begins to set – tension begins to rise in the Patwardhan household.


Because it’s time for Mr. Patwardhan to come home from work.

Funny – isn’t it…?

Actually – the family should be happy when the breadwinner returns home from work.

They should be eagerly awaiting his arrival.

You are right.

That was how it used to be earlier – the Patwardhan family would eagerly wait for Mr. Patwardhan to come home from work in the evening.

But now – it’s different.

Every evening is hell for the Patwardhan family – a torturous ordeal – for the wife, daughter and son – as they anxiously wait for Mr. Patwardhan to come home.


What happened…?

It is sad.

Very sad.

Very very sad.

Every evening – after work – Mr. Patwardhan goes straight to a Liquor Bar – and he comes home drunk.

The way he is drinking now-a-days – it won’t be long before he becomes an alcoholic.

Or maybe – he already is an alcoholic.

Come with me Dear Reader – let’s go and see what happens tonight.


To the chawl tenement in Girgaum where Patwardhan lives.

Look how it is built.

Four storeys.

Each floor has a common balcony for the row of ten one-room households.

The balconies afford a good view of the entrance and the main road – so everyone stands there in the evening enjoying the happenings – the comings and goings – that’s the main source of entertainment here.

And – when it gets dark – they all go inside – and watch the soaps on cable TV.

And now-a-days – the amusing highlight of the evening is the arrival of the totally sozzled intoxicated inebriated Mr. Patwardhan – and his drunken antics.

Adults and Children – everyone eagerly waits for the the drunk Mr. Patwardhan to arrive – swinging and swaying – sometimes shouting drunkenly and laughing incoherently – as children tease him.

In the otherwise humdrum life in the chawl – the arrival of Mr. Patwardhan and his hilarious behaviour is the event of the evening – eagerly awaited by all.

Yes – everyone eagerly waits for Mr. Patwardhan – everyone – except the Patwardhan family who wait in frightful trepidation.

They have long given up hope that Mr. Patwardhan would come home sober – so – they hope that he would come home soon – and the “evening entertainment session” would be over quickly.



Look at the second floor balcony.

Do you see two ladies standing in the centre of the balcony…?


The lady on the left – in the red sari – she is Mrs. Patwardhan.

And – the other lady…?

The other lady in the blue sari is Mrs. Joshi – Mrs. Patwardhan’s neighbour.

Mrs. Joshi is lucky.

Mrs. Joshi’s husband is doing well in life.

Mrs. Joshi’s husband is a cultured, sober and successful man – and they have plenty of money.

Mrs. Joshi’s children are bright.

They may even move out of this crowded chawl to a 2 BHK flat in Dombivli.

Or maybe – they may relocate  to Thane – or Kalyan – or some distant western suburb of Mumbai – if all goes well.

Let’s go and see what they are talking.

“Where are your kids…? I can’t see them playing below…” Mrs. Joshi asks Mrs. Patwardhan.

“Avinash is inside, studying. He’s become such an introvert. The boys jeer at him, taunt him – all because of his father’s drinking problem – so he’s stopped playing with them…” Mrs. Patwardhan says.

“It’s cruel…!!!”

“Yes. He’s become so silent. And his eyes! I’m scared of the hate in his eyes…” Mrs. Patwardhan says.

“It will be be okay. Just give him time. At least he’s doing well in his studies…” Mrs. Joshi says.

“Yes. But I’m more worried about Radhika. She’s just 14 – but she behaves as if she were 18 – or even 20. Poor thing. From a child – she has straight away become a mature woman – because of all this. It’s so sad – she must be suffering terribly inside…” Mrs. Patwardhan says, as tears well up in her eyes.

“Don’t cry…” Mrs. Joshi says to Mrs. Patwardhan, “everything will be all right.”

Suddenly – there is a commotion.

Mr. Patwardhan has arrived.

As usual – he is totally drunk – terribly intoxicated – pissed to the gills.

A totally drunk Mr. Patwardhan swings from side to side – he is so unsteady on his feet – that he is barely able to walk.

Mr. Patwardhan is so badly drunk – that he stumbles on first step of the staircase – and he falls down.

His daughter – Radhika – she appears from nowhere – and she tries to lift her father.

Mrs. Patwardhan rushes down the staircase.

Soon – both mother and daughter haul the miserably drunk Mr. Patwardhan up the staircase.

Mrs. Joshi stands transfixed – not knowing what to do.

Her husband – Mr. Joshi – he comes out of the house – and he looks at the scene.

Mr. Joshi mutters: “Disgraceful”

And – Mr. Joshi takes his wife Mrs. Joshi inside their house.

Words cannot describe the emotion of shame, humiliation, helplessness and hapless anger – the inwardly burning impotent rage – that Mrs. Patwardhan experiences at that moment.

Now that the “event” is over – her tension dissolves – and though Mrs. Patwardhan still feels angry – with time – a few hours later – her anger also dissipates.

Her worries for the day over – Mrs. Patwardhan goes to sleep.

The day is over.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Mrs. Patwardhan will be up early in the morning – get busy with her chores and work – and everything will be okay throughout the day.

It is only in the evening – when the sun begins to set – and it is time for her husband to come home – that the tension will begin to rise within her once again.

Now – Mrs. Patwardhan sleeps like a log.

Next door – Mrs. Joshi pretends that she is fast asleep.

Though her eyes are closed – in her mind’s eye – she can clearly visualize her husband’s surreptitiously silent movements as he “makes sure” that everyone is asleep.

Then – Mr. Joshi stealthily closes the door – and he sneaks out of the house in a furtive manner.

Mrs. Joshi knows where Mr. Joshi has gone – clandestinely – so late in the night.

Mrs. Joshi lies desolately on her barren bed in self-commiseration – feeling betrayed.

Mrs. Joshi is overcome by a sense of helplessness.

She deeply suffers her terrible sorrow in secret silence.

There is just one thought perambulating in Mrs. Joshi’s mind.

Mrs. Joshi feels that her neighbour Mrs. Patwardhan is luckier than her.

Mrs. Patwardhan’s husband may be an alcoholic – but at least he is faithful.

It is better to be the wife of a drunkard – than to be the wife of a womanizer.

Yes – there is nothing worse than having an unfaithful husband.

Mrs. Joshi thinks of Mrs. Patwardhan with envious sympathy.

Mrs. Patwardhan has nothing to hide.

Everyone knows that her husband is a drunkard.

She can share her stigma with everyone.

But – Mrs. Joshi has everything to hide.

No one knows that her husband is a womanizer.

No one in the chawl knows about his lecherous debauchery – his adulterous affairs – or – at least – Mrs. Joshi thinks that no one knows.

Mrs. Joshi has to bear her grief all alone.

And then – as the night advances – the tension begins to rise within her.

Mrs. Joshi’s tension will never dissipate – the stress, the strain, the pain – they will just keep on increasing – till one day something will snap within her.

The public shame the drunkard’s wife Mrs. Patwardhan suffers is bad enough.

Many people make fun of her.

Some people humiliate her.

But – a few people also sympathize with her.

It is the womanizer’s wife Mrs. Joshi who we must really pity – as she suffers her private ignominy in secret.

Every moment – Mrs. Joshi secretly dies a hundred deaths inside – unknown to the others – while she keeps up a façade – a pretence – and she wears a mask of make-believe – that everything is fine on the outside.

Is “secret sorrow” worse than “public shame”…?

Is the fear of your secret sorrow being found out – more painful than the stigma of public humiliation…?

I wonder which is more painful:

Secret Sorrow or Public Shame…?

But one thing is sure – secret sorrow and public shame – both cause a tremendous amount of stress, strain and pain.


Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.


This Story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved) 

Link to my original post in my Blog Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve:

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Revised Version of My Fiction Story Written by Me around 18 years ago in the year 2000 and earlier posted online under the title TENSION on my creative writing blog by me Vikram Karve at url: and reposted by me online many times including at url:    and

Epiphany – Short Fiction

February 13, 2019

Let me delve into my Creative Writing Archives and pull out a story I wrote 6 years ago – I wrote this love story in March 2013 (titled: EPIPHANY)

Here is the story once more, abridged, revised and updated, for you to read.

Do tell me if you like the story…  


Fiction Story By Vikram Karve


ANITA – My Wife

RITA – My ex-fiancee who dumped me and broke our engagement

GEORGE – Me (The Narrator of this Story) 

EPIPHANY – Short Fiction – A Love Story By Vikram Karve  

One month after my wife Anita died – I decided to shift out of my house to an old age home.

Anita had been such a loving and caring wife for 50 years – and her memories haunted our home to such an extent – that I could not bear to live in my house any longer.

So – I started going through our belongings – deciding which things to take with me to keep forever – and – which things to dispose off.

First – I sorted my belongings.

Then – I started going through Anita’s things.

I found the envelope hidden at the bottom of my wife Anita’s jewellery box – below her ornaments – when I was clearing her private cupboard.

The envelope was open.

There was a letter inside.

I started reading the letter.

It was a letter addressed to my wife Anita – written by Rita (my ex-fiancee who had dumped me)

Dear Anita,

Since you frankly told me everything about you and George last evening I could not sleep all night.

I thought over the matter. 

I also talked to my parents.

I have decided to break my engagement with George.

I think this will be best for all of us.

I am enclosing inside this envelope the engagement ring that George gave me.

This engagement ring now rightfully belongs to you.

Dear Anita – I wish you a happy married life with George.

I have decided to go abroad to my aunt’s place in London for a few months to cool off and get over this sudden disappointment.

My parents will inform George and his parents about the broken engagement.

Yours sincerely,


21 February 1966

Yes – it was Rita’s handwriting – no doubt about it.

How can I ever forget her typical cursive handwriting style…?

And – below her signature – as was her habit – Rita had meticulously written the date: 21 February 1966 

Dear Reader – you guessed right – I am George.

Today is the 21st of February 2016

50 years have passed since Rita wrote this letter – which I am seeing for the first time in my life today.

Yes – it is for the first time in my life that I am seeing this letter – which Rita wrote to to Anita.

Till this day – I did not know that Anita had met Rita on the 20th of December 1966 – just one week after my engagement with Rita.

And – immediately after Anita met Rita – Rita broke her engagement with me.

I don’t know what terrible lies Anita told Rita that made Rita take the extreme step of breaking our engagement and dumping me so cruelly.

I can never forget how stunned, devastated and vulnerable I was, when I naively walked into Anita’s compassionate and welcoming arms.

And just imagine – all these years I thought that Anita was a kindhearted loving woman – who had rescued me – and pulled me out of the abyss of depression – after Rita broke the engagement and dumped me.

Yes – all these 50 years I was ever grateful to Anita for her act of kindness – I thought Anita had done me a big favour by marrying me – after I had been dumped by Rita.

Now – after 50 years – I know – that in fact – it was my wife Anita who had orchestrated my breakup with my then fiancee Rita – by telling her false stories about me.

Did Anita tell Rita that Anita and Me were having an affair…?

Or – was it something worse…?

Had Anita falsely told Rita that she – Anita – was pregnant with my child…?

What lies had Anita told Rita – that made Rita suddenly break off the engagement – without even talking to me?

I was totally devastated – when Rita’s father had called up to break the engagement.

I had instantly sunk into a terrible depression.

And – all these 50 years – I thought Anita was such a loving and caring woman – who had pulled me out of my depression by marrying me.

Now – after reading the letter – I know that Anita was a devious woman – who had intentionally torpedoed and sabotaged my engagement with Rita – made me emotionally vulnerable – and then – trapped me into marriage.

Now – after knowing all this – I hate Anita – bloody scheming bitch …

My blood boils …

But – I control the train of my thoughts.

There is no point thinking ill of the dead.

But – what exactly did Anita tell Rita?

I will never know.

Anita is dead.

And Rita – she disappeared from my life forever – yes – Rita had disappeared – vanished into thin air – forever.

50 years have passed.

Maybe – Rita is dead.

And even if Rita is alive – and – even if I do meet her now – what is the point of asking her anything.

Will Rita believe what I have to say…?

It is all over.

I will never know the falsehoods – the lies – the untruths about me – that Anita told Rita.

I will have to live with this burden for the few remaining years of my life.

But hey – where is the engagement ring I had given Rita…?

It was an exclusive diamond-studded solid-gold engagement ring which had cost me a fortune.

Rita’s letter says that the ring is in the envelope along with the letter that she had given Anita.

I look inside the envelope.

There is no ring in the envelope.

I search Anita’s jewellery box – her cupboard – everywhere – but I cannot find the ring anywhere.

Anita must have sold it – yes – that cheap woman must have sold the expensive engagement ring.

What a terrible woman…?

Not content with breaking my engagement – Anita even sells the engagement ring.

So – it is becoming clear that Anita did many devious things.

First – Anita contrives the breaking up of my engagement with Rita by telling Rita false stories about me.

Then – when I am down in the dumps due to the broken engagement – Anita makes me believe – that she is doing me a big “favour” by marrying me.

Of course – worst of all – Anita never shows me Rita’s letter in which Rita has sent Anita the expensive engagement ring.

And – the worst thing of all – Anita sells off the exclusive diamond-studded solid-gold engagement ring.

My wife Anita.

My late wife Anita.

What a terrible woman…?

How wicked can one get…?

And – just imagine – all these 50 years I thought Anita was such a loving and caring wife.


Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.


This Story is a work of Fiction. All Stories in this Blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the stories are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved) 

Link to my source blog post in my Blog Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve:

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

A revised and updated version of my Story EPIPHANY First Posted by me Vikram Karve in my Academic and Creative Writing Journal Blog at 3/13/2013 02:55:00 PM at url:  and  and  and  and

Seven Types of Love

February 13, 2019

7 Types of Love



Seven Types of Love

Inchoate Love Story – a “Clean” Marriage

February 13, 2019



Fiction Short Story By Vikram Karve

Café Samovar Mumbai (circa 2004)

“I want a “clean” marriage…” she says.

“Clean Marriage…?” he asks her, confused.

“A marriage without an “intimate” relationship…” the woman says.

“You want to have a marriage without sex…?” the man asks the woman.

“Yes. A “chaste” relationship – just companionship – no physical relationship…” the woman says.

“Just “platonic” love – no “sexual” love…?” the man says.

“Love…? Well – you can say – a pure and clean “platonic nonsexual relationship”…” the woman says.

The man is puzzled by the woman’s proposal.

Seeing the expression of uncertainty on the man’s face – the woman says to him:

“You think about it. If you think that a “clean marriage” is feasible – and – if you are agreeable for a “clean marriage” – then – please come here tomorrow evening – same time – and we can take it further. I will be waiting for you. But – if you don’t like the idea – please don’t come – I will understand…”

After saying this – the woman smiles at the man – she gets up from her seat – she turns around – and – she walks out of Samovar Café.

Next Evening – Café Samovar Mumbai

When the man enters Café Samovar next evening – he sees the woman sitting on the same table.

He smiles at her – and – he walks towards her.

She smiles back at him.

The woman says to the man: “I knew you would come…”

The man sits down in front of the woman.

They ordered Snacks and Tea – the Samovar Special Pakoda Platter and Pudina Chai(Tea).

The woman speaks first.

“I know there are many questions in your mind. Please speak freely and ask whatever you want. After all – we are thinking of getting married – so – there should be no doubts or confusion at all…” she says to the man.

“You want a completely “sexless” and “sex-free” marriage…?” the man asks the woman.

“Yes…” she says.

“If you are not interested in sex – why get married at all…?

“Is “sex” the only reason why people get married…?”

“No. But it is one of the reasons…”

“But – I don’t want “sex” in my marriage…”

“But why…?”

“I am afraid of having sex…”

“Oh. So – you are not “asexual” – you have “genophobia”…”


“Yes – genophobia – fear of sex – you are afraid of sexual intimacy…”


“May I ask why you are afraid of sexual intimacy..?” the man says.

Seeing the expression of discomfort on the woman’s face – the man feels contrite – and he says to the woman: “I am very sorry…”

“No. No. I will tell you. After all – you are the first man who has shown interest in marrying me despite my precondition for a “clean marriage”. You can ask me whatever you want to ask…” the woman says.

“Your fear of sexual intimacy – is it due to some traumatic incident…?” the man asks the woman.

“Yes. It happened 20 years ago. My uncle tried to brutally rape me. I was only 12 years old. It was a terrifying experience – gruesome and horrific – I suffered unimaginable agony. I was totally shattered…”

“I’m so sorry…”

“And – after that traumatic incident – I haven’t had any form of sexual contact with anyone – I feel terrified by the very thought of sex – I feel frightened if any man comes near me – or touches me….”

“And women…?”

“What do you mean…?”

“Have you been intimate with women…?”

“What are you saying…?” the woman says, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s okay – it’s okay – let’s talk something else…” the man says, trying to comfort the woman.

The woman remains silent for some time.

Then – the woman says: “Let me make it clear. I am not a lesbian. I like men. I like being friends with of men. I want the companionship of a man. That is why I want to get married. But – I am afraid of having sex with a man. That’s why I want a “clean” marriage…”

“A “clean” marriage…!” the man says, “I really wonder…?”

“I am sure we will be able to make it work…” the woman says, “you and me – can’t we have a “pure” relationship – can’t we enjoy each other’s company and live together as best friends…?”

“We can have a “trial marriage” – we can live together…”

“No. No. I want a proper marriage – a commitment – we will have everything that is there is a proper marriage – except sex…”

“Oh. So – no “Ludus”…!”

“Ludus…? What’s “Ludus”…? It sounds obscene…!”

“No. No. Nothing obscene about it…! “Ludus” is playful and uncommitted love – like they have in casual relationships…”


“Well – you want “Philia” – friendship, goodwill, companionship, dependability, trust…”

“Yes. Yes…”

“And maybe – a bit of “Pragma” – and of course – “Storge” – a sort of “familial” love – a long-term relationship where sex may not be that important…”

“I don’t want sex at all…”

“Of course – you made that quite clear right from the beginning – absolutely no “Eros” – no sexual passionate love…”

“I am getting confused by your jargon…”

“It’s not “jargon” – there are seven types of love – Eros, Philia, Storge, Agape, Ludus, Pragma, Philautia – if you’re interested – I’ll tell you more…”

“Of course I’m interested – tell me…”

And so – the man tells the woman all about love.

She listens intently – and when he finishes – she says to him: “You know so much. You are very interesting man. I’d love to get married to you. I think we can have a great “clean” marriage. Let’s…”

“I think we should meet one more time…” the man says.

“Okay. Tomorrow evening – over here – same time…?”

“Let’s meet at my place. Unless…”

“Yes. Let’s meet at your place. I’d love to see your house…” the woman says, enthusiastically.

“Okay. I’ll message you my address and exact location…” the man says to the woman.

“That’s great. I’ll come after work in the evening…”

“I’ll wait for you. We can talk – and cook some dinner together…”

“Wow. But tomorrow – we will talk about you. I have told you about myself – my expectations. Now – you have to tell me why you are interested in a “clean” marriage…” the woman says to the man.

“Okay…” the man says.

They – the man and the woman – they get up from their seats – walk out of Samovar Café – into the foyer of Jehangir Art Gallery – they wish each other “Good Bye” – and walk away towards their destinations.

(Story to be continued…) 


Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.


  1. This blog post is a fictional spoof, pure fiction, just for fun and humor, no offence is meant to anyone, so take it with a pinch of salt and have a laugh.
  2. All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

Link to my original blog post in my Blog Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve:

Story continued from my blog post UNFINISHED STORY url:

Six Types of Love

February 13, 2019

Six Types of Love



6 Types of Love

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