Travel Humor : an unforgettable Train Journey

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PREAMBLE

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This story happened 44 years ago – in the year 1980.

Today – “Fauji” (Military) Officers are a pampered lot.

All Defence Officers travel by Air from the day they are commissioned into the Armed Forces.

But – in those “good old days” – Air Travel was a luxury permitted only for senior officers above the rank of Colonel, Captain and Group Captain – a rank very few achieved – and that too after slogging in cut-throat competition for around 25 years.

So – most Defence Officers travelled by the magnificent Indian Railways – and long train journeys were an essential part of military life – while travelling on duty and while going home on leave – and we still remember many of those memorable train journeys.

Nowadays – since Defence Officers and their families mostly travel by air – they miss out on the romance of train journeys.

But – in those “good old days” – The Indian Railways were an integral part of the romance of military life.

Here is the story of a memorable and unforgettable train journey I enjoyed during my Navy days.

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“SLIPPERY SLOPE”

An Unforgettable Train Journey

Story by Vikram Karve

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PREFACE

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THE “OILY” NAVY

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You may have heard of the WAVY NAVY – the RNVR (Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve) and the RINVR (Royal Indian Naval Volunteer Reserve) – whose officers wore “wavy” rank stripes – while Royal Navy (RN) Officers wore “straight” rank stripes.

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You may have also heard the witty quote by a famous Second World War “Wavy Navy” Officer of the RNVR:

…“the difference between the “Straight Navy” (RN) and “Wavy-Navy” (RNVR) is that – the “Straight Navy” RN Officers look after the Navy in peacetime – while the “Wavy-Navy” RNVR Officers do the fighting in War…”

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He was hinting that Regular (RN) Officers “fight” in “peacetime” – whereas Reservists (RNVR) fight the actual war.

This highlighted the difference between “peacetime soldiering” mainly done by Regular Officers – and “warfighting” mainly done by the Reservists – especially in the Second World War.

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So – now you have heard of the WAVY NAVY

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But – have you heard of the OILY NAVY…?

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Well – I certainly hadn’t heard of the “Oily Navy” – till this rather comical incident happened to me.

So Dear Reader – let me delve into my “Humour in Uniform Archives” and narrate to you – once more – this hilarious story of “peacetime soldiering”

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PROLOGUE

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The best thing that happened to me in the Navy were the three glorious years I spent serving on ships based in Mumbai (then called Bombay) in the 1970’s – around 47 years ago.

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(Hence – in this story – for Mumbai – I shall use the old name “Bombay” – which was the name of Mumbai when this story happened)

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Both my ships were Frigates – frontline warships of the Western Fleet – the “sword-arm” of the Navy – and both ships were based at Bombay.

We sailed for a few days – sometimes visiting various ports – but for the remaining days we were tied alongside in Bombay Dockyard which is in the heart of the city.

I loved sailing.

But more than that – I loved spending time in a harbour like Bombay – which was most exciting as the vibrant metropolis had so much to offer for young bachelors like me with a zest for life.

It was the happiest time of my life.

My appointments on these two ships based at Bombay was the best thing that happened to me in the Navy.

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The worst thing that happened to me in the Navy was my unexpected to transfer to Jamnagar – which put an end to my happy time in Bombay.

I was looking forward to an appointment to a shore billet in Bombay – which would enable me to continue to enjoy the life of bliss in “maximum city” to the fullest.

In fact – a few months earlier – I had been informally told by a Senior Naval Officer that I would be appointed in the Naval Dockyard at Bombay – as was the norm for young Technical Officers after appointments at sea.

But – someone pulled strings in Delhi – and – I was on my way to Jamnagar.

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After a fantastic time in Bombay – the desolate Naval Base at Jamnagar was most disappointing – especially for a young bachelor like me who had a zest for life.

My only aim was to get out of that dreary place as fast as possible.

That is why – when the first opportunity came – a temporary duty to Bombay – I jumped at the opportunity.

And – on my journey from Jamnagar to Bombay – happened this “Oily Tale” which put me on a “Slippery Slope”

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AN OILY TALE

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRAIN JOURNEY

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PART 1

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Time: 1000 Hours (10 AM)

Date: Sunday 26 October 1980

Place: Navy Base (INS Valsura) Jamnagar

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I was all set to proceed on Temporary Duty (Ty Duty) to Bombay.

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(Mumbai was known as Bombay then and I shall refer to Mumbai as Bombay hereinafter – since that was the name of the city when this story happened – though I personally prefer the name Mumbai).

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The 3-tonner truck arrived at my cabin in the Wardroom (Officers Mess) to pick me up.

“Why have they sent a bloody 3-tonner for an officer…? I am going on duty. I thought they would send me a staff car or jeep…” I asked the driver.

“Sir – both staff cars are out – one is with CO who will be going to town with his wife for shopping and lunch – the other staff car has been taken by the Commodore who has come from Delhi – he left early in the morning with his family for pilgrimage to Dwarka and Okha – and the XO has taken the jeep to town – he has gone to see a movie with his family…” the driver said.

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I seethed at the feudal culture still prevalent in the services where senior officers treated government resources as if they were their own personal fiefdom.

As an officer proceeding on duty – I had the first claim on a staff car – but I would have to ride in a truck since senior officers had commandeered the cars for their personal enjoyment.

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I took my small bag – and I got in beside the driver.

Instead of proceeding to the main gate – the driver diverted the vehicle to the Married Officers Accommodation.

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Lieutenant Commander “X” (a “Schoolie” Education Officer) was proceeding on leave to Madras (now called Chennai) with his family – and he was taking a lift in the transport meant for me.

I got down – let “X” sit with his wife and small daughter in front with the driver – and I sat at the rear – in the 3-tonner.

At the guard room – there were a few sailors and their families, proceeding on leave – and some “liberty-men” – waiting to take a lift in the 3-tonner – to “Teen-Batti” – near the old metre-gauge Jamnagar Railway Station.

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In those good old “metre-gauge” days – there were only two trains from Jamnagar:

1. The Saurashtra Mail – which originated at Okha – and passed through Jamnagar at 11 AM (1100 Hrs)

and

2. The Saurashtra Express – which originated at Porbandar – and passed through Jamnagar at 5 PM (1700 Hrs)

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The morning Saurashtra Mail was convenient for those going towards Bombay and the south.

The evening Saurashtra Express was ideal for those going towards Delhi and “up-north” in the through slip coaches via Viramgam and Mehsana – which were later attached to the connecting metre-gauge Ahmedabad Delhi Mail.

Of course – both trains had connecting broad gauge trains of the same names at Viramgam to take you towards Bombay.

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At the guard room – I reported to the Officer of the Day (OOD).

The OOD made an entry in the ship’s log book that I was leaving “ship” – and proceeding on Temporary Duty.

Lieutenant Commander “X” had also followed me into the OOD office to make an entry regarding his proceeding on Annual Leave.

As I started to walk out – the OOD said to me:

“Wait – you have to carry some items to Bombay…”

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I turned and looked at the OOD.

“Items…?” I asked.

“Yes, you have to carry three oil tins…” the OOD said.

“Oil tins…?” I asked.

“Yes – you have to carry 3 oil tins – and deliver them to these addresses…” the OOD said.

He gave me a chit with the names of 3 Commodores – their designation and phone numbers – and their home addresses in NOFRA Bombay – written below each name.

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Now – in those good old days – as far as Naval Officers were concerned – Jamnagar was famous for five things:

1. The Unique Colourful Bandhani (tie and dye) Sarees

2. Soft Lohi Blankets-cum-shawls from famous DIGJAM Mills

3. White Uniform Buckskin Shoes made to order by a cobbler in the heart of old Jamnagar city (nowadays, buckskin shoes are not produced or permitted, I think)

4. Luscious Rasgullas, Sweets and lip-smacking Farsan from Shikhand Samrat and inimitable Dry Fruit Sweets and Kachori from HJ Vyas near Mandvi Tower.

And – last but not the least:

5. Groundnut Oil (because groundnut refined cooking oil was much cheaper in Saurashtra than in Bombay)

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I would have had no problems if someone had requested me to carry the other items like Sarees or Rasgullas.

But there was no way I was going to carry three huge cumbersome 16 Kg tins of groundnut oil.

I came out of the OOD office.

I saw some Duty Sailors loading three large 16 Kg groundnut oil tins into the 3 tonner.

The OOD had also come out of his office and was watching the proceedings.

I looked at the OOD and said to him:

“Sorry – I can’t take these oil tins with me.

Please ask the sailors to unload them from the truck…”

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The OOD looked at me in disbelief and said to me:

“What…?

You want them to unload the oil tins from the truck…?

You are going on Ty Duty to Bombay – aren’t you…?”

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“Sir – I am not going on Ty Duty to deliver those bloody oil tins – the purpose of my Ty Duty is something else…” I said.

“Don’t act smart. The Commanding Officer (CO) desires that you have to carry these 3 oil tins and deliver them to the 3 Commodores whose names are written in the chit I gave you…” the OOD said.

I tried to reason with the OOD and I said to him:

“Sir – please try to understand.

I just have one small bag.

In Bombay – a Lieutenant does not get transport – so I intend taking Bus No. 123 from Bombay Central to RC Church and walk down to Command Mess.

I can’t lug these three huge oil tins around – and I don’t intend hiring porters just to carry these bloody oil tins.

And Sir – who is going to carry these bulky oil tins from metre-gauge to broad gauge at Viramgam…?”

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After saying this – I looked at the OOD.

The OOD seemed surprised by my refusal to carry the oil tins.

He looked at me firmly before speaking.

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“Look here – I told you once – you don’t try to act smart – the CO has directed that you carry these oil tins. All officers going to Bombay on Ty Duty carry oil tins…” the OOD said.

“Well – I am not going to carry these bloody oil tins for sure. And now – I have to go – otherwise – I will miss my train…” I said.

“You don’t try to take “panga” – I told you that the CO has ordered you to carry these oil tins…” the OOD said.

“Then you can tell him that I am not going to carry these bloody oil tins…” I said firmly.

“If you act funny and disobey orders – they will transfer you out from this place…” the OOD warned me.

This was music to my ears.

So – I said to the OOD:

“I will be the happiest person if they transfer me out of this godforsaken place…”

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I said these words with a smile.

When threatened with transfer – this was my “trump card”.

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Lieutenant Commander “X” was hearing the argument between me and the OOD.

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Lieutenant Commander “X” looked at me and said to me in a patronizing manner:

“Why are you making such a big issue out of this…?

Everyone going on Ty Duty takes some items that senior officers want delivered.,,”

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Bolstered by the support from “X” – who was a Lieutenant Commander – the OOD said to me:

“You will bloody well have to obey the orders of the CO.

Do you understand…?”

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I had my doubts whether the CO had actually ordered me to carry the oil tins to Bombay.

So – I said to the OOD:

“Why didn’t the CO tell me personally about the oil tins…?

I think you are bluffing…”

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The OOD seemed to get angry on hearing my words.

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“Are you accusing me of telling lies…?” the OOD said to me – angrily.

“I didn’t say that…” I said.

“You will not leave the base unless you take those oil tins – do you understand…?” the OOD shouted at me.

“Listen, Sir – I told you very clearly that I am not taking those oil tins with me. I am getting late and I will miss my train. If you detain me any further – I will not proceed on Ty Duty…” I said firmly.

As I said earlier – I thought that the OOD was bluffing when he said that the CO had ordered me to carry the oil tins.

But it seemed that the CO had indeed done so – because on hearing my refusal – the OOD went all berserk – he picked up the phone, dialled furiously – and then – he started talking excitedly – about my refusal to carry the oil tins.

I wondered who the OOD was talking to on the phone – but the way he was saying “yes sir, yes sir” in an animated manner – it was either the CO – or someone senior at the other end of the phone line.

Soon – I heard the OOD mention the name of Lieutenant Commander “X”.

And then – the OOD gave the phone to Lieutenant Commander “X”.

Now – it was Lieutenant Commander “X” saying “yes sir, yes sir” on the phone.

The upshot of the conversation was that now – instead of me – Lieutenant Commander “X” would carry the oil tins to Mumbai.

On reaching Mumbai – Lieutenant Commander “X” would dutifully deliver the 3 oil tins to the 3 Commodores in Bombay – and then – he would catch the Dadar – Madras Express in the afternoon – and proceed to Madras (Chennai) to enjoy his Annual Leave.

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PART 2

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Time: 1200 Hours (12 noon)

Day: Sunday 26 October 1980

Place: Travelling on board the Okha Viramgam (metre gauge) Saurashtra Mail just departed from Jamnagar Railway Station

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I sat in the old style first class compartment (which you see in ancient black and white Hindi movies) in the metre-gauge train which ran from Okha to Viramgam.

The berths were fore-and-aft – the compartment was bright, airy and roomy due to the three large windows on each side alongside the lower berths.

The train had left Jamnagar at 1130 Hrs. (11:30 AM) and would reach Viramgam at 19:30 Hrs. (7:30 PM) – covering a distance of roughly 300 kilometers in 8 hours – so you can imagine the slow speed of the train as it chugged along unhurriedly pulled by an archaic steam engine belching smoke and soot as it puffed along.

It was a most boring journey – with hardly any big railway stations – except Rajkot – and for a Foodie like me – the only thing available was various kinds of fried “bhajji” (pakoras).

But I had come well stocked – a bottle of “XXX Hercules Rum” – my favourite set of plastic tumblers which accompanied me on my journeys – a “surahi” of drinking water (acquired at Jamnagar station and topped up with cool water from the water cooler) – and some “small eats” like boiled eggs, aloo parathas and potato fingers (packed from the Officers Mess).

My co-passengers in the compartment were the “schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” – his wife – and their small 3 year old daughter – and – of course – the 3 big Oil Tins – placed strategically at a safe place near the bathroom door – and guarded zealously by Lieutenant Commander “X” – who was keeping an “eagle-eye” on the Oil Tins.

The moment the train started from Jamnagar – I opened the bottle of my favourite “XXX Hercules Rum” – and I poured myself a drink of Rum and Water (Rum-Pani).

In those good old days – passengers were permitted to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes in first class compartments – provided other passengers did not object.

There was no question of the “schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” objecting – since I had poured him a drink too – though his wife was giving me dirty looks – as if I were “spoiling” her husband.

At the first stop – a small station called Hapa – the Train Conductor (TC) appeared – and he asked us if we wanted to order lunch at Rajkot.

His eyes lit up the moment he saw the bottle of Rum.

I offered him a drink.

He pulled out a large stainless steel glass from his bag – and I poured in a generous tot of Rum.

The TC did not add water to the neat Rum – but to my utter surprise – he drank the neat Rum in one gulp – straight “down the hatch”.

Imbibing “spirits” seemed to have raised his “morale”.

“Sir – you don’t worry…” the Train Conductor said, “the Railway Refreshment Room Food in Rajkot is not that good – I will get chicken dishes for you from “Sher-e-Punjab” Restaurant – so you can enjoy your drinks – the train stops for 30 minutes – and the hotel is just outside the station.”

It was great to see the sense of “camaraderie” between the Railways and Defence Services – and – this warmed the cockles of my heart.

Three hours later – at around 3 o’clock – with half a bottle of Rum and generous amounts of Tandoori Chicken, Butter Chicken and Rotis inside me – I was satiated enough for my afternoon siesta – and the moment I hit the bunk – I fell into deep sleep.

I woke up around 6 o’clock in the evening – and had a cup of refreshing masala tea – at railway station called Surendranagar Junction – where the train had halted for a long time for a crossing.

The moment that train started – I had a shower in the spacious old-style bathroom of the first class compartment – and I was ready for the evening action – commencing with a “sundowner”.

It was still one hour to go for Viramgam – there was enough time for a drink or two.

The “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander X” and his wife were sitting on the opposite berth with their daughter – and all of them were looking utterly bored.

The Lieutenant Commander’s eyes lit up the moment he saw me taking out the Rum bottle – but his wife gave him a stern look – and he refused my offer of a drink.

I noticed that the Lieutenant Commander’s Wife had been giving me angry looks throughout the journey.

Maybe – it was because I had made her husband drink in the afternoon.

Or – maybe – it was because she was annoyed that her husband was saddled with the three bulky oil tins – thanks to my refusal to carry them.

I think it some frustration was building up inside her – and she couldn’t hold it any longer – so – she said to me:

“We were thinking of visiting my relatives in Matunga and then catching the Madras Express in the afternoon at Dadar.

And now – we have to go all the way to Colaba to deliver these oil tins.

Our full morning will be wasted.

It is all because of you….”

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After saying this – she gave me an angry look.

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“All because of me…?” I protested, looking at her in surprise.

“Yes – you refused to carry the oil tins – so – my husband is forced to carry them…” she said.

“He could have also refused…” I said.

On hearing my words – the “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” said bitterly to me:

“It is very well for you to say this – you are a non-bothered “couldn’t-care-less” type – and you are a junior Lieutenant – but I am a Lieutenant Commander in the “promotion zone” – my Commander’s Selection Board is next year – and as it is – in the Education Branch there are just one or two vacancies – and it is very difficult to get promoted – so – I have to do whatever they tell me…”

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This story happened 1980 – much before the AVS Cadre Review 2006 – when – in the Navy – Commander was a Select List Rank – and only a selected few Lieutenant Commanders became Commanders.

Those days – in the Navy – there was a selection board for promotion from Lieutenant Commander to Commander rank – after around 15/16/17 years of service

(Ranks till Lieutenant Commander were based on years of service and seniority gained on your performance in Training)

Now – after AVS Cadre Review 2006 – 100% Officers are promoted to the rank of Commander (Lt Col/Wg Cdr) after 13 years of Service.

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So – Lieutenant Commander “X” with around 15 years service – was “sweating” for his promotion.

I felt sorry for him.

But – I was not going to be “emotionally blackmailed” by him or his wife – into taking on the burden of carrying and delivering the oil tins.

So – I just looked away out of the window at beautiful sight of the setting sun – and I sipped my “sundowner” Rum-Pani (Rum with Water) – and nibbled into the “mirchi pakoras” which I had picked up at a tiny station called Lakhtar – where the train had halted for two minutes – these “bhajjis” or pakoras were the only “small eats” available on this rather desolate stretch of railway.

By the time I finished my Rum-Pani – it was dark – and I could see that we were approaching the marshalling yard of Viramgam Junction – and the train was slowing down.

So – I secured my bag – and I got ready to shift to the broad-gauge Saurashtra Mail – which would take us to Bombay.

Lieutenant Commander “X” was hovering around his precious “cargo” – the 3 large groundnut oil tins.

“Sir – why don’t you just leave the bloody oil tins over here in this metre-gauge train – and you can tell the CO that you forgot the oil tins in the train…” I joked.

“Please keep quiet – you need not worry about the oil tins…” he said angrily.

“To hell with him…” I thought.

And so – I took my bag – and I got down on the platform.

“X” was haggling with the porters for carrying the 3 oil tins.

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PART 3

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Time: 2000 Hours (8 PM)

Day: Sunday 26 October 1980

Place: Travelling on board the 6 up Viramgam – Bombay (broad gauge) Saurashtra Mail just departed from Viramgam Railway Station

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The new broad gauge first class compartment seemed spacious as compared to the ramshackle metre gauge coach.

Once again my companions in the four-berther compartment were the “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” and his wife and small daughter.

In the broad gauge – the 3 oil tins fitted in below the berth where “X” – his wife and daughter were sitting.

I sat on the opposite berth.

I polished off the remains of the Bottle of Hercules Rum.

I had offered “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” the last drink remaining in the bottle – but again – “X” politely declined my offer of a drink – he seemed to be scared of the stern looks his wife was giving him whenever he looked longingly at the Rum Bottle.

By the time I killed the bottle – it was almost 9 PM – and Ahmedabad Railway Station had arrived.

I had a quick dinner of Puri Bhaji on the platform.

And then – I hit the sack.

I let “X” and his wife take the two bottom berths – and I slept on the top berth above “X”.

The oil tins were on the opposite side below the berth where Mrs. “X” slept with her daughter.

I was in deep sleep – when there was a big bang.

Suddenly – everything went topsy-turvy.

The compartment had toppled – and our railway coach was lying on its side.

My legs were on top of my head.

I realised that our train had derailed.

Suddenly the lights went off – and it was dark.

Lieutenant Commander “X” and his wife were shouting:

“What happened…? What happened…?”

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I told Lieutenant Commander “X” and his wife that the train had derailed – and that they should remain where they were – till I got the door open.

Luckily – the compartment door was on the upper side of the toppled compartment.

The moment I swung my legs down – I hit oil – Ha Ha – my legs were immersed in oil.

Yes – an oil tin had burst – or probably – all the three oil tins had burst – and there was oil all over the compartment.

Nevertheless – I got down – and I tried to pull myself up to the door.

It was a slippery slope – and soon I was fully covered with groundnut oil.

Lieutenant Commander “X”, his wife and daughter were looking at me curiously – I motioned to them to remain where they were.

Suddenly – the compartment door was yanked open.

It was the Train Conductor with some people.

They had a torch.

They threw in a blanket – and they told us to hold it tight.

Then – and one by one – they yanked us out into the corridor – the lady and her daughter – Lieutenant Commander “X” – and me.

Then – we carefully climbed out of the derailed bogie.

Soon – after a small walk along the railway track towards the rear of the train – we were sitting on a bench on the platform of “Miyagam Karjan” Railway Station.

I looked at the station clock – it was 2 AM (0200 Hours on 27 October 1980 – to be precise).

Talking to people – we came to know that it had been a freak accident.

Some wagons of a goods train coming from the opposite direction had got derailed seconds before our speeding train passed it – and our engine had hit the derailed wagons and gone off the rails – derailing the first few bogies off the track.

Luckily – ours was the last bogie to be derailed – the bogies in front had got badly smashed.

I thanked my stars that I was alive and well.

Suddenly – Lieutenant Commander “X” asked me:

“Did all the 3 oil tins burst – or only one…?”

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“I don’t know. I was worried about saving our lives – not about the bloody oil tins…” I said.

“I think we should go back and try and get the oil tins out of the compartment…” he said.

“Are you crazy…? I just about managed to get our bags out. The bloody train is derailed. The bogie is lying topsy-turvy. It is pitch dark. Sir – please lets thank God that we are safe and sound – and for heaven’s sake please forget about those wretched oil tins…” I said.

“But the CO will be angry if I don’t deliver the oil tins…” Lieutenant Commander “X” said.

“Sir – what’s wrong with you…? Be happy that you, your wife, your daughter – all of you have narrowly escaped death. You want to go in there again to get those damned oil tins…? Suppose you break your legs – or suppose you smash your head and die…? Is it worth it – just for the sake of a few oil worthless tins…?” I said to him.

Suddenly Mrs “X” interjected – and she said to her husband:

“Yes – Yes – it is too dangerous.

You don’t go anywhere…”

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She firmly told her husband not to go.

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We spent the whole night at Miyagam Karjan.

At around 3 AM – I saw the Station Master.

I told him I was a Defence Officer – and I showed him my Identity Card – and he kindly allowed us to sit in his office – and put a couple of benches for us to lie down.

I woke up at 6 AM – washed up in the Station Master’s Bathroom – and I got ready.

Lieutenant Commander “X” and his family were nowhere to be seen.

I asked the Station Master about them.

The Station Master told me about the whereabouts of Lieutenant Commander “X”.

“Oh – your companions got up early – and they must having tea on the platform. A Relief Train has already arrived from Baroda (Vadodara). They have almost finished removing the derailed goods wagons from the ‘down’ track. The moment the ‘down’ track is cleared of the derailed wagons – we will send you in the Relief Train to Bombay (Mumbai)…” the Station Master said.

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PART 4

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Time: 1130 Hours (11:30 AM)

Day: Sunday 27 October 1980

Place: Travelling on board the Relief Train to Bombay (Mumbai) just departed from Miyagam Karjan Railway Station

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The railway “accident repair team” did a spectacular job – and by 1100 Hours – they had cleared the down track.

First – a test engine was sent across the repaired track – and shortly thereafter – our relief train was on its way to Bombay.

As I came to my seat – I saw Mrs “X” and her daughter – but Lieutenant Commander “X” was not there.

“Where is your husband…?” I asked Mrs “X”.

“He has gone to the Brake Van…” she said.

“Brake Van…?” I asked, surprised.

“Don’t you know…? He finally went and retrieved those oil tins – two of them are intact – yes – only one oil tin was damaged and leaked out – and two oil tins are absolutely okay. The railway porters were removing luggage from the brake van of the derailed train – he paid them some money and they got out the oil tins from the compartment and they have put them in the baggage compartment of the brake van of this relief train. So – he has gone to check whether they are secured properly…” she said to me.

“Is he crazy…?” I said – instantly regretting my words.

“I don’t know what will happen now…? We will miss our connecting train – the Dadar-Madras Express…” she said, looking worried.

“Don’t worry, Ma’am. We should reach Bombay Central latest by around 8 o’clock at night – maybe even earlier. You can catch the Bombay Madras Mail – which leaves around 10 PM from VT. I know someone in Central Railway – I will see to it that you get a berth…” I said.

“But – my husband will insist on delivering the oil tins…” she said, sounding anxious.

“You don’t worry about those oil tins, Ma’am – I will deliver the oil tins…” I said in a reassuring tone to Mrs “X”.

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PART 5

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Time: 1900 Hours (7 PM)

Day: Sunday 27 October 1980

Place: Bombay Central Railway Station (now Mumbai Central)

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We – Lieutenant Commander “X” – his wife – his daughter – and I – all of us were walking towards the exit of Bombay Central Railway Terminus – when a man stopped us.

“Are those your oil tins…?” the man asked – pointing to the 2 oil tins being carried by the porter.

“Yes…” I said.

“You have to pay “octroi”…” he said.

“Octroi…?” I asked.

“Yes…” he said, “if you bring anything for sale into Bombay – you have to pay octroi.”

“But the oil is for my personal consumption…” I said, “and – I am a Defence Officer.”

“Oh, Sir – then please show me the octroi exemption certificate…” he said.

I was in no mood to argue – and the octroi amount wasn’t that much – so I paid up.

I remarked sarcastically to Lieutenant Commander “X”:

“Sir – the next time someone asks me to get an oil tin from Jamnagar – considering the porterage and octroi we have paid – I will just give him the difference in oil tin price between Bombay and Jamnagar – and tell him to buy the oil tin in Bombay…”

__________

We took a taxi to Bombay VT (now called Mumbai CST).

I dropped off Lieutenant Commander “X” and his family at VT Railway Station – and I proceeded to the Navy Command Mess with the two oil tins.

Next morning – I went to the Navy Office for my work – the task for which I had come to Bombay on Ty Duty.

Luckily – one of the Commodores on the list (Commodore “Z”) was posted in Headquarters – where I had go for my work.

The Commodore was not in office – so I told his PA to have two oil tins collected from my cabin in Command Mess.

I told her that I had instructed my civilian bearer accordingly – so the oil tins could be collected anytime.

I gave her the list of 3 Commodores – and I told the PA to request her boss Commodore “Z” to deliver the second oil tin to any one of them.

When I reached back to my cabin in Command Mess in the afternoon – the civilian bearer told me that the two oil tins had been collected.

Disappointed at having lost one day in Mumbai due to the train accident – I caught the 5 Down Saurashtra Mail back to Jamnagar that evening – as per my return reservation.

—————

EPILOGUE

____________

One month later – after returning from his leave – the “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” landed up in my office at Jamnagar.

“Did you deliver the oil tins…?” he asked.

“Yes…” I said, “Commodore “Z” collected both the oil tins.”

“The Canteen Officer is asking for money…?” he said.

“What money…?” I said.

“The cost of the 3 oil tins…” he said.

“Didn’t you tell him we had an accident…?” I said.

“Yes. He said he will “write off” one oil tin – but he wants the money for the other two oil tins. Didn’t Commodore “Z” give you money for the two oil tins…? Did you ask him for it…?” he said.

“Well – I didn’t even meet Commodore “Z” – his PA had the oil tins collected from my cabin – and I didn’t even know that I had to ask for the money – in fact – I don’t even know how much the bloody groundnut oil tin costs…” I said.

“Then what do we do…?” he said.

“Well – tell the Canteen Officer to ask the CO to write a Demi-Official Letter (DO letter) to that freeloading Commodore “Z” asking him to pay up the money for the two oil tins….” I said.

“That’s a good idea…” Lieutenant Commander “X” said.

“And Sir – make sure you include the porterage, the octroi charges, the taxi fare, and some “sweat money” for me as well…” I said, tongue-in-cheek.

Apparently – “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” did not learn any lessons from the “Oily” experience.

The very next month – I saw him standing near the OOD Office.

He was on his way to Bombay on Temporary Duty.

And yes – Ha Ha – believe it or not – he was carrying three 16 Kg groundnut oil tins.

Of course – a few months later – when the promotion board results were announced – “Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” was promoted in his first chance to the rank of Commander.

His “Oiling” of seniors had produced the desired results….!!!

_________

Cheers to the “Oily” Navy which put me on a “Slippery Slope”

_________

VIKRAM KARVE

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.

Disclaimer:

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.
3. E&OE

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: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2017/02/humor-in-uniform-how-oily-navy-put-me_42.html

This is a revised version of my Story written by me Vikram Karve around 10 years ago and earlier posted online by me Vikram Karve in my blog at 6/02/2014 11:13:00 AM at url: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2014/06/humor-in-and-out-of-uniform-on-slippery.html and partly postedby me Vikram Karve in my blog at 5/23/2014 08:12:00 AM at url: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2014/05/humor-in-uniform-oily-tale.html and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2014/08/humor-in-uniform-oily-navy.html and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2015/05/humor-in-uniform-oily-navy.html and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2015/12/humor-in-uniform-oily-navy.htmland http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2016/03/humor-in-uniform-unforgettable-train.html and https://karve.wordpress.com/2017/11/06/humor-in-uniform-a-memoir-from-my-jamnagar-navy-days/ and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2016/08/humor-in-uniform-oily-navy-slippery.html and https://karve.wordpress.com/2019/04/02/humor-oily-navy-slippery-slope/ and https://karve.wordpress.com/2021/04/15/slippery-slope/ and https://karve.wordpress.com/2022/03/22/travel-story-on-a-slippery-slope/ and https://vikramkarve.medium.com/on-a-slippery-slope-571f69d3139c and https://karve.wordpress.com/2022/07/27/a-travel-story-from-my-navy-days/ etc

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

______________

THE FLIRTY WOMAN ON THE TRAIN – A TRAVEL ROMANCE

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: FLIRTING ON THE TRAIN – A TRAVEL ROMANCE.

Link to my original post in my Academic and Creative Writing Journal: 
http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…

One good thing about the Navy is that you get an opportunity to spend many years in Mumbai.

And – since I am from Pune – during these Mumbai tenures – I frequently travelled from Mumbai to Pune (and back) by Train – whenever I got leave – and on weekend visits.

Those days there was no Mumbai Pune Expressway and the road journey was arduous, cumbersome and time-consuming.

Also – those days – we did not own cars – so the journey Mumbai to Pune and back had to be done on a bike – which was quite dicey – especially in the ghats – and hence we preferred train travel.

These train journeys gave me ideas for many of my stories.

Here is one I wrote around 25 years ago – in the early 1990s.

I have duly abridged updated and revised the story for the digital screen – and have added an explanatory epilogue.

Do tell me if you like this old fashioned romance…

A TRAVEL ROMANCE
The Flirty Woman on the Train
A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

EPILOGUE

Sometime ago – I received a wedding invitation card.

I wondered who had sent it – as I was clueless – when I read the names.

Soon – a classmate of mine – with whom I had lost contact – with rang me up – and she said that she had found my whereabouts from the internet – and that she had sent me the invitation card of the wedding of her daughter.

I read the bride’s mother’s name from the card – and the lady on the phone confirmed that the name on the card was her new name.

As was the custom in earlier days – she had changed her maiden name after her marriage – and in her new name – there was no trace of her earlier name.

For illustrative purposes – I will give you a fictitious example:

Suppose her earlier name before her marriage was Swati [her maiden name given by her parents] Laxman [her father’s name] Gokhale [her father’s surname] – now – after her marriage – her new name was transformed intoManisha [new name given by her husband] Vishwas [husband’s name]Bhide [husband’s surname].

Please observe that her new name Manisha Vishwas Bhide has absolutely no trace of her earlier name Swati Laxman Gokhale.

I do not think this happens too often nowadays – as girls retain their earlier identities after marriage – including both the maiden name and surname as well – but here is a story I wrote long ago on the name game. 

I think I wrote this story around 25 years ago on a train journey from Mumbai to Pune

By the way this is pure fiction – a figment of my imagination – there are no such persons – and no such thing ever happened – so just sit back and enjoy the story…

FLIRTING ON THE TRAIN
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

No matter how many times I begin a train journey – I always have an intriguing interest in seeing who my fellow-passengers are. 

I stood on the platform of Mumbai Station in the early morning chill and scanned the reservation chart pasted on the Air-Conditioned Chair-Car of the Indrayani Express. 

I was on seat number 30 – a window seat.

A window seat.

The neighbouring seat number 29 was reserved in the name of Avinash Bhide – male – age 10.

A disappointment…!

There was better luck on seat number 28 – Manisha Bhide – female – age 35.

In my mind’s eye – I tried to imagine and visualise what Manisha Bhide would be like.

Surprisingly – Manisha Bhide did not board the train as it left Mumbai CST.

I felt a pang of disappointment.

Maybe she would come at Dadar.

The seats in the air-conditioned chair-car were three abreast – 28 near the aisle – 30 near the window – and 29 in-between.

I sat down on seat number 28.

In 10 minutes the train reached Dadar.

A beautiful woman with vivacious dancing eyes entered the coach – and she had a young boy in tow.

As she walked towards me – I instinctively knew that she was Manisha Bhide.

“Manisha Bhide?” I asked – as I stood up.

I and gave her a smile of forced geniality.

Our eyes met.

She looked into my eyes for that moment longer than may be considered polite greeting.

I felt a sense of elation.

I quickly moved out on the aisle – and I helped her with her luggage.

Meanwhile young Avinash Bhide had occupied the window-seat – seat No. 30 – my seat.

Before Manisha Bhide could say anything – I quickly interjected, “It’s okay. Let the young gentleman sit in the window-seat”. 

Now she would have to sit next to me.

Manisha Bhide smiled in resignation at the fait accompli – and she sat down on seat number 29.

My opening gambit having succeeded – I closed my eyes to savour the sense of delight I was experiencing.

After a long time – I felt young and happy once again.

This was one journey I was going to enjoy. 

Suddenly – Manisha Bhide spoke, “Excuse me – but aren’t you Vijay Joshi…?”

I was taken aback – a bit bewildered.

Flabbergasted – I opened my eyes – wondering whether they put up reservation charts at Dadar too – since the one on the coach was on the right-hand side – and the platform at Dadar was on the left.

Before I could recover my wits – Manisha Bhide said, “You are in the Merchant Navy, aren’t you…?”

Stunned and dumbstruck – I just stared at her – vacuously – perplexed into silence.

The silence was grotesque.

Manisha Bhide broke the silence – and she said to me: “You don’t remember me – do you…? But I have recognized you Mr. Joshi – or is it Captain Joshi…? Why are you hiding behind that ghastly beard…? The beard doesn’t suit you. You looked so handsome clean-shaven…”

I caressed my beard lovingly with my right hand – and I said, “No Ma’am – I don’t think we have met – maybe you are mistaking me for someone else – and had we met – I would never have forgotten you…”

That was true. 

She was really beautiful – a face one could not forget easily – and her vivacious eyes – if I had seen her I would have certainly remembered her…

“But you are Vijay Joshi – aren’t you…?” she said.

I looked at her.

I felt totally astounded. 

She seemed to give me the impression – as if we had known each other very well.

“You are right,” I said, “I am indeed Captain Vijay Joshi, Master Mariner. But I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

“But then – how do you know my new name…?” she snapped.

“New name…?” I said.

“Yes. My new name – Manisha Bhide…” she said.

“I saw it on the reservation chart,” I said sheepishly.

“I was Swati Gokhale before marriage,” she said, “and after marriage – my surname changed to Bhide – and husband changed my maiden name from Swati to Manisha.”

“Manisha Bhide nee Swati Gokhale…!” I joked – and I said to her, “Well – I am quite sure. I don’t think we have ever met before.”

People are always little disconcerted when you do not recognize them. 

They are so important to themselves – that it is disheartening for them to discover of what negligible importance they are to others. 

I racked my brains – but just could not remember meeting any Swati Gokhale.

“Are you from Pune…?” I asked.

“No. I am from Mumbai,” she answered – then she paused – and she said, “But now I live in Pune. My husband works there.”

She paused for another moment – she looked directly into my eyes – and she asked me, “Do you still live in Nashik…?”

“No…No…” I said, trying to hide my surprise. “I have got a flat in Mumbai. In Colaba. And I have also bought a bungalow in Lonavala. That is where I am going right now.”

“Oh…really…?” she said, raising her eyebrows appreciatively.

But – I did sense that slight tinge of regret in her voice – just a trace mind you – but the nuance did not escape me.

She looked at me with genuine admiration in her eyes – and she said, “You must be a rich man…?”

I smiled. “Well – it is a paying job. And then – one gets paid in dollars.”

“I wish I had married you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What…?” I asked totally stunned and taken aback.

“One day my parents showed me two photographs. One was yours – and the other was my husband’s – my present husband that is…” she said wistfully.

Then she looked directly at me – and she said, “I had to choose one – and I think I made the wrong choice. It was a big mistake – a real big mistake. I really wish I had married you, Captain Joshi…!”

It took a while for her words to sink in – and as comprehension dawned on me – I understood the reasons for her interest in me.

People have many reasons for snooping into others people’s lives and affairs. 

Everyone has a natural curiosity to know what lies beyond the closed door – especially if they have closed that door themselves.

In my mind’s eye – I tried to imagine what life would have been like had she married me.

I was tempted to probe a bit – so I asked her, “Please tell me. I am curious. Why did you reject me…?”

“Please don’t say that – I never rejected you – I just selected him – actually it all happened so fast – you were away sailing on the high seas – and I had only your photograph to go by – and it was going to be six months before you would return from sea. And the Bhide’s were in a terrible hurry. Vishwas Bhide was in India for precisely one month – to find a bride – to get married – and to go back to America. Actually he was flooded with proposals – but he had liked me – and I too wanted to go abroad – and enjoy the luxury – the high standard of living…” she said.

“When was this…?” I asked.

“15 years ago – when I was exactly 20 years old…” she said.

“I wonder why my mother didn’t tell me about you…?” I said to her, quite confused, “Well – 15 years ago – I was only a Second Officer – and I did not know that my mother was busy finding a bride for me – while I was away at sea. But she should have told me about you…”

“It’s understandable…” Manisha Bhide said nonchalantly, “If a boy rejects a girl – it does not matter – but if the girl rejects the boy – he becomes a laughing stock, an object of ridicule – at least in those days – 15 years ago…”

I smiled to myself at the truth of her statement.

“So you live in America do you…? On a holiday here…?” I asked, trying to change the topic.

“No,” she said. “We came back 7 years ago. My husband took up a professorship in the University. He is so qualified and talented – that he could earn millions – but he is an idealist sort of chap who lacks ambition. A man who values high thinking and simple living – a thrift and frugality type – you know he even lacks the drive to do well in that teaching job too. It’s so sad – his idea of happiness is to wallow in mediocrity in every aspect of life. It’s pathetic – I tell you – it’s just pathetic…!”

“How can you say that?” I interjected, “Teaching is an honourable profession. And surely – the pay must be okay.”

“Maybe – but with his thrift and frugality values – he just does not want to enjoy life – or have a decent standard of living, Mr. Joshi,” she said – with bitterness in her voice, “We live in a dilapidated house in the university campus. And I am ashamed to drive in our small rickety car. All my dreams have been dashed. I too wish I could have a bungalow in Lonavala like you and live in style. I really envy your wife, Captain Joshi…!”

“I don’t have a wife…” I said.

“Good God…! You never got married…?” she asked, confusion writ large on her face.

Then she paused for a moment – and she said tenderly, “Or is it…? Oh… I am so sorry…”

“No… No…” I said, “It’s not what you think. I am not a widower. Nor am I a bachelor. I am a divorcee. One fine day my wife just left me – and she moved in with some school teacher. It happened 3 years ago.”

“Your wife left you for school teacher…? How silly…!”

“It’s ironic – isn’t it?” I said, “You wanted a standard of living – she wanted a quality of life.”

“Quality of life…?” Manisha Bhide said.

“That’s what she used to say. She couldn’t stand the separations, the loneliness. She wanted me to give up merchant navy and take up some job ashore – but I had got too used to the sea and did not want to give up the so called ‘standard of living’ as you put it…” I paused for a moment – and then I said wistfully, “I wish I had understood… On the whole – I think an imperfect marriage is better than no marriage at all…”

“I think your wife was very unfair,” Manisha Bhide said.

“On the contrary – I too haven’t been an angel. You see – life at sea is not all fun and frolic. One docks at exotic ports – and one does get lonely at times – and then – one is tempted to sow one’s wild oats…” I said.

I instantly regretted those words – especially the “…sow one’s wild oats…”bit.

On hearing my words – there was a sudden metamorphosis in Manisha Bhide.

She was looking at me now as if I was a lusty lecherous predator on the prowl.

I excused myself – and I went to the toilet.

When I returned – I found Master Avinash Bhide in the centre-seat – with a scowl on his face.

Manisha Bhide had now shifted to the window seat – and was studiously making a pretence of reading a magazine.

I sat down next to the young boy – and the rest of the journey passed in interesting conversation with Master Avinash Bhide. 

He wanted to know all about ships…!

As the train approached Lonavala – I pulled down my bag – and I said, “Goodbye Mrs. Bhide. It was nice meeting you – and – of course – your son is a delightful chap…!”

Manisha Bhide turned her face – and she looked at me.

She looked so beautiful – so attractive – that I stood mesmerized – and I was unable to take my eyes off her.

Manisha Bhide smiled – she looked into my eyes – and she said to me, “It was good that I met you Captain Joshi. All these years – I was always tormented by the thought that I had made the wrong choice – that I had selected the wrong photograph – and I wished that I had selected you. But now – I know I made the right choice…!”

As I walked away – I had a canny feeling that I had probably saved her marriage.

I can never forget Manisha Bhide – her mesmerizing beauty – and her vivacious dancing eyes – and – sometimes – when I feel lonely and melancholic – I wish she had opted for me – and married me – instead of that Vishwas Bhide.

Maybe – we would have a rocking marriage.

Maybe – I would have been the right choice for her.

Maybe for her – Surely for me.

But – one thing is for sure – I wouldn’t have changed her maiden name – I prefer Swati. 

Swati Joshi sounds much better than Manisha Joshi – doesn’t it…?

VIKRAM KARVE
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.

Disclaimer:
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)
     
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

This is a revised version of my story THE RIGHT CHOICE written by me Vikram Karve 25 years ago in the year 1990 and earlier posted online by me an number of times in my various creative writing blogs including at urls:http://creative.sulekha.com/the-…  and  https://vikramwkarve.wordpress.c… and https://vikramwkarve.wordpress.c…  and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…  and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…  etc

Now Re-Posted by Vikram Karve at 8/22/2015 11:55:00 PM

A Story for Republic Day – 26 JANUARY 2013

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: 26 JANUARY 2013.

Click the link above and read the original post.

Also posted below for your convenience:

A STORY ON THE 64th REPUBLIC DAY OF INDIA

Original Link to the post on my Creative Writing Journal: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2013/01/26-january-2013.html


26 JANUARY 2013

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

26 January 2013.

Republic Day of India.

6:30 AM.

A cold morning.

A woman sits on a bench on the solitary platform of Girinagar Railway Station.

She looks at her watch.

Then she looks towards the Railway Track.

She has a worried expression on her face.

The Station Master comes out of his office holding two flags, one green and one red.

He sees the woman and smiles at her.

The woman gets up from the bench and asks the station master, “Is the shuttle late?”

“Yes, the shuttle has been delayed. The express train is being stopped here. The shuttle has been detained at the outer signal and will arrive here after the express train goes away.”

“Oh, My God…!!!”

“What happened?” asks the station master.

“I don’t want to be late for the Republic Day function in our school.”

“What time is the function?”

“7:30. The normal school time.”

“Oh.”

“I hope I will reach in time,” the woman says anxiously.

“I don’t think so. Normally the shuttle leaves here at 6:25 and reaches the Junction at 7. It’s 35 minutes running time. Today the express is expected to arrive at 6:45 and will be detained here for at least 5 minutes. By the time the shuttle arrives and leaves it will easily be past 7. Even if it makes up time and reaches the junction by 7:30 you still have a 10 minute walk to school. I don’t think you’ll be able to make it on time.”

“Oh, My God. I will be in trouble if I am late for the Republic Day function. It will be so humiliating,” the woman says in an anxious voice with nervousness written all over her face.

“You’ve got a first class pass, haven’t you?” the station master asks.

“Yes,” the woman says.

“Then don’t worry. You can travel by the express in the air-conditioned coach. I will tell the TTE to permit you. The express will take less than 15 minutes to reach the junction and you will be there latest by 7:10 and you can easily reach your school well before 7:30.”

“Thank you so much.”

“What ‘Thank You’? You are like my daughter. This is the least I can do for you.”

“Why is the express stopping here?” the woman asks.

“The express train is being stopped here for Colonel Ashok,” the station master says.

Suddenly the telephone rings and the station master rushes inside his office.

“The express train is being stopped here for Colonel Ashok” – those words slice through the woman’s heart like a knife slices through butter.

“So Ashok is a Colonel now. A big shot. Big enough to get the express stopped for him at Girinagar where even the fast passenger does not halt,” the woman says to herself.

Then the woman is filled with hate and regret and she says to herself bitterly: “Had it not been for the scheming bitch Menaka who mesmerized Ashok with her enticing charms and stole him away from me, today I would been Mrs. Ashok – a Colonel’s Wife, a Memsahib.”

Suddenly, the shrill whistle of the diesel engine of the express train disturbs her train of thoughts and the express train arrives on the platform.

The air-conditioned coach stops right in front of her. In the door stands Menaka, Ashok’s wife.

Menaka sees the woman and smiles at her but the woman does not return the smile.

The woman turns her face away but looks at the door of the air-conditioned coach with the corner of her eyes trying to catch a glimpse of Ashok.

The big show-off that he is, she is sure Ashok will be in his resplendent uniform strutting like a peacock.

But there is no sign of Colonel Ashok.

Instead she sees a young officer in uniform getting down from the train with Menaka and the both of them start walking towards the end of the train.

“Come on, get in fast,” the station master motions her towards the door of the air-conditioned coach. He says something to the TTE and the TTE tells her to go inside and sit on Seat No. 30.

She sits on Seat No. 30.

A family – a man, a woman and a small boy sit on the seats around her.

There is a jerk, the tug of the engine, and the train starts moving and picks up speed.

The woman looks at her watch.

6:50.

She heaves a sigh of relief.

She will be well on time for the Republic Day function.

The TTE arrives to check her pass.

Curious, the woman asks the TTE: “Why did the train stop here?”

“To detach the refrigerated van at the end of the train,” the TTE says, “the van was carrying the body of an army officer who died in action and sacrificed his life for the nation. His widowed wife was sitting right here on Seat No. 30 – the same seat where you are now sitting.”

“His name was Colonel Ashok,” the man sitting in front says, “despite losing her husband the courageous lady was so poised and calm. It is because of the sacrifice of such brave people that we can celebrate Republic Day … ”

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Did you like this story?

I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL
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About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer and blogger. Educated at IIT Delhi, IIT (BHU) Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and an anthology of short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional  and academic research papers in journals and edited in-house journals and magazines for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing and blogging. Vikram Karve lives in Pune India with his family and muse – his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Academic and Creative Writing Journal: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page:  https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Email: vikramwamankarve@gmail.com

      

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Posted by Vikram Karve 

 

Who is the Woman with Cat Eyes? DON’T DELVE TOO MUCH – My Favourite Short Stories Part 77

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: DON’T DELVE TOO MUCH – My Favourite Short Stories Part 77.

Click the link above and read the short story in my creative writing journal

Regards

Vikram Karve

THE JOYS OF PET PARENTING

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: WHY YOU MUST ADOPT A PET DOG.

Click the link above and read the article in my creative writing journal

Cocktail – Short stories by Vikram Karve

Cocktail- Short stories by Vikram Karve.

BOOK REVIEW OF COCKTAIL by Vivek Banerjee

First and foremost, three cheers for APK Publishers for publishing a book of short stories. Almost everybody in the publishing industry (from publishers to agents to writers) assure me that short stories do not sell unless from a celebrity pen and are therefore unpublishable.  It is heartening to see that Prashant Karhade of APK does not subscribe to this philosophy.

Now coming to Vikram Karve, a familiar name to those who have been following his blogs on Sulekha.com, this is his first collection of short stories. He writes about today’s urban lifestyle, about love (and lack of it), life, relationships, desires (both fulfilled and unfulfilled), yearning and boredom. His characters are real life and well etched. The twenty seven stories traverse familiar ground, invoking in the reader feelings as diverse as joy, pathos and at times amusement. But there is a problem. After a while, the emotions get repetitive. Most of the heroes are bearded, he-man, master mariner types;  the women are sexy and attractive (usually dressed in tight fitting pink t-shirts tucked into hip hugging jeans) and certain phrases(Drying a divorcee’s tears is one of the most dangerous pastimes known to a man) and situations appear multiple times. That does not mean that the book is not an enjoyable read. I loved some of the stories.Lovedale touched my heart, Parting Gift is both sad and funny, Rendezvous at sunrise is different, A lazy hot afternoon in Mumbai is exquisite, Deccan Queen ingenious, Freedom is honest and Chilled beer is well, chilling. Some stories do not work that well (Every dog has his day is corny,Electrophoresis is plain silly) but none of them can be called bad.

Karve writes well and did surprise me with a few words I had not heard /read before (must get myself a good dictionary, the one in Microsoft Word has serious limitations). Overall, a good attempt and a must read for short story buffs. (My rating 3/5)

To buy the book online, please click here.

DT aka DELIRIUM TREMENS

DT aka DELIRIUM TREMENS.

 

DT

DELIRIUM TREMENS

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

Here is a rather old fashioned fiction short story written by me sometime in the 1990s.

I trust you will like the story, Dear Reader, and give me your feedback and comments.

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 favourite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.

I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.

“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her expression starts changing.

Before she gets angry someone says, “It is Muthu, ma’am.”

Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.

I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”

Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.

“Must be a big binge this time,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?

I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”

We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings – cold, dark and gloomy.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.

“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.

“Whenever I’m there with him, he’s okay and controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got in this world – after mummy died.”

“He was improving so much and looked so good last weekend,” Lata says.

Lata is my true friend who I can open my heart to. The others – they watch from a distance. Most look at me with pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.

“Something must have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”

“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.

“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the cruel world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.

Ms. David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.

I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs. Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”

“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.

“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a mathematics test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”

“Please Miss!” Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says, “Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”

I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.

Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.

Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms. Pushpa – an ex-student of our school.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.

“Hello, Shanta.” Ms. Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”

As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s grotesque, terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people – they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.

I walk with Ms. Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.

I look at Ms. Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.

We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.

“You’re in Rose house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.

Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer!

“Yes ma’am,” I answer.

“I too was in Rose house,” she says.

“When did you pass out, ma’am?” I ask.

“1990,” she says.

I do a quick mental calculation. In 1990 suppose she was 16. Now she must be in her mid-thirties – 35, 36 maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And she is very beautiful; so gorgeous, so chic, that I want to be like her when I grow up.

We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of the lovely yet lonely Lovedale railway station.

“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.

“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.

“Season ticket?” she asked surprised.

“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.

“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.

“Even now it is, 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 on the lonely platform of Lovedale railway station.

“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 am waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father? What’s wrong with him? What’s he suffering from?”

I have never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure! At first I used to feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, and give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.

“He is 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 trying to suppress my emotion. “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 “Toy 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 and gorgeous.

But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.

The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.

“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.

“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s been almost eighteen years. I am returning here the first time since I passed out,” she says.

“For some work? Children’s admission?”

“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.

“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”

“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”

“You work?” I ask.

“Yes. In an MNC.”

She must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?

I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable – the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?

She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.

Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.

The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.

The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.

The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.

A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.

“Not playing?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.

“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.

“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.

“Where are you going?”

“Coonoor.”

“Coonoor?”

“My father is 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 going up to Ooty comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Lovedale.

Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.

“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms. Pushpa says.

I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”

“Is your father often like this?” she asks.

Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles and talking to even more troubled people like me makes her own troubles go away.

I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. He controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. Something disturbing! He must have got upset – really badly upset.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.

“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”

Her expression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.

“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”

“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.

I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the colour of her eyes – she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses even once though it is quite misty – I wonder why.

How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.

I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.

“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.

“I’ll come with you,” she says.

“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure, thanks.”

Ms. Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes for the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes, dazzling cat eyes. Exactly like mine. Yes her eyes are exactly like mine.

I stare into her eyes mesmerized – as if I am looking into my own eyes.

Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.

Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.

She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.

The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.

Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.

As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those hail fellow – well met types of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.

I reach the clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.

“Yes?” a voice says from behind.

I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.

I tell her who I am. Her expression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.

I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.

I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.

“Papa,” I say softly.

He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.

“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.

We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.

“Can I take him home?” 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 hundred-rupee note, the owner asks, “Saab – I hope he’s okay.”

I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.

Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favourite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.

“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.

“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.

“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.

“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.

“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”

“Custody? What are you talking?”

“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”

“Who?”

“Your birthmother.”

“Birthmother?”

“Yes.”

“But mummy?”

“Don’t delve too much.”

In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.

And opposite me is that hideous woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs. Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.

Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.

And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”

Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.

Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.

And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.

We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.

“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs. Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.

We wait. And gradually, a depressing and frightening darkness envelopes.

Mrs. Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs. Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.”

Looking perturbed, Mrs. Murthy 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…greenish-grey…Like my eyes…Tell me…Papa…Does she have cat eyes like me?”

“Don’t delve too much!” Papa says lovingly as he puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness.

As we walk together in a newfound harmony, I think of the gorgeous woman with the dazzling cat eyes and suddenly I see the flashing lights of the evening Toy Train meandering up the silhouettes of the dark hills in the distance.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

If you liked this story you will love the stories in COCKTAIL – my book of short stories about relationships. To know more please click the links below:

http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?ref=f97bb964-c672-44c5-bfe2-f496cf239053

http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?ref=53dfd28d-5c31-4e36-b0e2-79d771c06afb

http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book “Appetite for a Stroll”. A collection of his short stories about relationships titled COCKTAIL has been published and Vikram is currently busy writing his first novel and with his teaching and training assignments. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and his muse – his pet DobermanX girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

COCKTAIL – Stories about Relationships by Vikram Karve

To Order please click the links below:

INDIAPLAZA

http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm

FLIPKART

http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?ref=f97bb964-c672-44c5-bfe2-f496cf239053

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APK PUBLISHERS (They Ship Overseas too)

http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/fiction/cocktail_by_vikram_karve.html

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog : http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com

Professional Profile of Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

Foodie Book:

Appetite for a Stroll

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

BAREILLY

BAREILLY.

 

BAREILLY DAYS

BAREILLY

Childhood Memories

By

VIKRAM KARVE

One winter morning a few months ago, while on a walk in the misty hills of Girinagar with my pet dog Sherry, I don’t know why, but while I was admiring the glorious spectacle of the sun rising from behind the mighty Sinhagad fort, suddenly, out of the blue, my mind harked back to my childhood days and I was filled with nostalgic memories of my days in a place called Bareilly where I lived for a few years in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

I mentioned this to my evening walking partner Kapil, who told me that he too had lived in Bareilly.

Later in the evening, to continue the Bareilly connection, my darling wife also recalled her days in Bareilly in the mid 1970s.

Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?

So, I thought, why not hark back to those memorable days, tickle my memory, and write a few lines about what I remember about Bareilly and tell you about it. And hey, dear reader and fellow armchair traveller, I am talking about Bans Bareilly, mid-way between Delhi and Lucknow (and not the other Bareilly east of Lucknow, the celebrated Rae Bareli).

Those days, in the 1960s, at least for me, it was quite difficult to reach Bareilly, but since I loved travelling by train, I thorougly enjoyed the rather long railway journey with many interruptions for changing trains on the way.

From Pune, early in the morning, we caught the Deccan Queen to Mumbai, got down at Dadar, walked across to the Western Railway, took a local to Mumbai Central, and put your luggage in the Cloak Room. Then you took a train Churchgate and spent a lovely day enjoying the delights of Mumbai – a movie, good food, window shopping on Colaba Causeway, a stroll on Marine Drive at sunset, a quick dinner – and then returned to Mumbai Central to catch the Frontier Mail which left around nine at night.

Next evening, around tea-time in the evening we got down at Mathura Junction for catching the connecting Metre Gauge train to Bareilly. There was a long wait at Mathura. Mathura was a busy station and while our parents relaxed in the waiting room, we kids pranced around the platforms and overbridges watching the trains go by, hauled by black smoke-bellowing steam engines – trains like the blue coloured Taj Express from Agra to Delhi and other express trains heading south.

After dinner we crossed over to the Metre Gauge North Eastern Railway platform to catch the Agra Fort – Kathgodam Kumaon Express which would reach Bareilly junction early in the morning. I remember once we had a terrible train accident in the middle of the night near a station called Rati Ka Nagla when the train derailed at high speed and were rescued from our coach which had toppled over.

My journey during my school holidays to Bareilly all the way from Lovedale near Ooty was really long – four nights and five days – the toy train down the Nilgiris to Mettupalaiyam, the Blue Mountain (Nilgiri) Express to Chennai (then called Madras), a day loafing in Chennai, the GT Express to New Delhi, a full day window shopping in Connaught Place in Delhi, the late night Lucknow Mail from New Delhi which reached Bareilly around 2 AM, then wait till dawn to catch a cycle rickshaw to Izatnagar where we lived. And if you wanted an even more ardous journey the you could travel by the Delhi – Bareilly passenger which chugged along at an excrutiatingly slow pace and took all night.

Bareilly was an important Railway Junction, where metre gauge and broad gauge met, the main line between Howrah and Amritsar and the metre gauge network from Agra to the east, the hills and the loop lines. I remember the decent refreshment room there and the Railway station was an important landmark in town.

We stayed in the outskirts of Bareilly Town, near Izatnagar, and every Sunday we would drive down via IVRI, Shamatganj and Civil Lines to the Bareilly Club, where we would start our day with a swim in the covered pool. Then the elders played Tambola while we kids read books in the Library and this was followed by a delicious lunch of Chana Bhatura. Yes, dear reader, this was the place which introduced me to this scrumptious delicacy and Bareilly Club, in those days, served awesome Chana Bhatura – soft luscious Bhatura and yummy lip-smacking Chana with a sprinkling of fresh onions, corriander and green chillies. (My wife tells me that when she lived in Bareilly a few years later, she too was a regular at the library, swimming pool and games at Bareilly Club and even won the May Queen contest held at the club). I wonder if the Bareilly Club is still as beautiful and lively now as it was back then, more than forty years ago, and do they still have the Tambola and Chana Bhature routine on Sunday mornings.

After lunch we went for a movie. I remember seeing my all time favourite comedy film Padosan at the Old Novelty and then Johny Mera Naam and Mera Naam Joker at the renovated Novelty cinema – and Purab aur Paschim and Inteqam at Jagat, Pehchaan at Imperial, Sawan Bhadon starring Rekha and Navin Nischol at Kumar and I think there was a cinema theatre called Hind also where we saw a Rajesh Khanna movie called Joroo Ka Ghulam. I really wonder whether these old world cinema theatres exist now or have they been replaced by swanky multiplexes like in most other places.

Those days, the most posh restaurant in Bareilly was Rio. At Rio’s the food was superb – I still recall that Rio served the excellent mutton dishes like Rogan Josh, Do Piaza and Korma and a yummy Chicken Masala too. I think they served continental cuisine too as I have fleeting memories of having relished melt in the mouth chicken a la kiev. I faintly recall savouring tea time snacks at Rio too – sandwiches, pastries and cold coffee, but maybe I have forgotten. Then there came along another restaurant called Shadows but I do not have distinct memories of the food out there. In the heart of the city there were places which served mouth-watering delights like samosas, jalebis and chaat.

For our favourite books we went to the London Book Depot in BI Bazar which had some other shops and, I think, a bakery too where you got delicious non-veg foodstuffs like patties, cold meats like ham, salami and snacks.

My small sister and her friends travelled all the way from Izatnagar to Maria Goretti School in a cycle rickshaw and later I too ventured out on my new Atlas bicycle to the city and various picnic spots like Ramganga bridge etc. There was the famous WIMCO match box factory, and Camphor, Turpentine, Chemical factories at Clutterbuckganj and a Tomato Ketchup Plant where you took your tomatoes and they made fresh ketchup, kasaundi and sauce for you.

The nearby hills of the Kumaon, nestling the beautiful hill station of Naintal, beckoned in Summer, and they said that you could see the snow clad Himalayan peaks on a clear day.

That’s all I remember about the Bareilly of yesteryear, etched in my memory, the Bareilly of the 1960s and 1070s, more than forty years ago. A lot of water has flown down the Ramganga since and I wonder how the city of Bareilly is now. Do the places mentioned still exist? Or has everything changed. Will someone be so good as to enlighten us…!

PS – I did not find a Jhumka in Bareilly ke Bazar…!!!  Did you…???

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book “Appetite for a Stroll”. A collection of his short stories about relationships titled COCKTAIL is being published soon and Vikram is currently busy writing his first novel and with his teaching and training assignments. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and his muse – his pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com

Professional Profile of Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

Foodie Book:

Appetite for a Stroll
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm

Short Stories Book: Cocktail
Cocktail – Short Stories about Relationships :
http://www.facebook.com/notes.php?pages#!/pages/Cocktail-by-Vikram-Karve-APK-Publishers/177873552253247

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

REAY ROAD

REAY ROAD.

 

MUMBAI MEMORIES

REAY ROAD

THE CUTEST HERITAGE RAILWAY STATION IN MUMBAI
by
VIKRAM KARVE

Long back, maybe seven or eight years 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.

After stopping at the Masjid, Sandhurst Road and Dockyard Road Railway Stations, the local train stopped at Reay Road where I got down (or “alighted from the train onto the platform”, as they say in Railway parlance).

Walking towards the exit of Reay Road Railway Station, I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty of the ancient station building, which stood like a sentinel above the railway lines which passed through beneath it. The most eye catching feature which adorned the building was the elegant clock in the centre which looked down like a beautiful vigilant eye, as if keeping an eagle eye from its towering position on the trains coming and going, rushing below, and the goings on and hustle bustle on the platforms .

Many Mariners, in their younger days, would probably have passed through these magnificent portals of Reay Road Station without even giving it a second look.

Reay Road is the cutest and most petite railway station I have ever seen.

Let me tell you a bit more about its heritage.

Did you know that Reay Road Railway Station, a prime landmark of Mumbai, is a 19th Century Heritage Grade I structure?

Surely you know CST (VT/ Bori Bunder) and Churchgate are famous and celebrated Heritage Buildings, but did you even imagine in your wildest thoughts that Reay Road was an equally prestigious Heritage Structure 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 railway stations on Mumbai’s suburban railway include Byculla on the Central Railway and Bandra on the Western Railway.

The next time you are in Mumbai, catch a harbour branch local train 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.

Is Reay Road Railway Station still the same way as I described it? Or has it changed?

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. He has written a foodie book Appetite For A Stroll and a book of fiction short stories which is being published soon and is busy writing his first novel. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

Creative Writing by Vikram Karve: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

A CREATIVE ENGINE AND A MUSE

A CREATIVE ENGINE AND A MUSE.

A POET AND HIS MUSE

THE CREATIVE ENGINE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Do you remember the moment when you saw your first creative effort published, your very own words in print, for the world to read?

I do.

It was the happiest moment of my life when I saw my first fiction short story published in the Sunday literary supplement of a newspaper long long back. (Well  literary supplements have disappeared long back and today we have page 3 gossip and entertainment news in their place).

Tell me, dear reader, what inspires you to write…?

Do you have a “Creative Engine”  –  to inspire you and help you unleash your creative talents…?

Some of us may be inspired by a Muse.

Here is a simple Story of a Poet and his Muse. I am sure you will like the story.

Chotte Lal is in seventh heaven, on cloud nine…call it what you like.

But one thing is sure. This is the happiest moment of his life.

Chotte Lal experiences a delightfully beautiful emotion as he looks lovingly at his own words printed on the top left hand corner of the last page of the newspaper.

Chotte Lal experiences an ecstatic feeling of pride, joy, thrill – I really have no words to describe this unique emotion, but if you are a writer, just recall the moment when you saw your first creative effort in print, and you will understand what I mean.

Chotte Lal reads his poem to himself, slowly, deliberately, tenderly, drinking in each word, drowns his self in his creation, in a state of blissful timelessness, till the bookstall owner roughly shakes him out of his idyllic reverie loudly asking for money for the newspaper.

Chotte Lal pays him, and then, continuing to read his own poetry, walks with a spring in his step towards the running room to share his happiness with his colleagues.

And as he strides down the long platform towards his destination, let me tell you a bit about Chotte Lal, the hero of our story, an Engine Driver in the railways.

Chotte Lal’s father was a humble gangman whose life’s ambition was to make his motherless son an Engine Driver.

Everyday as he looked up from his lowly place beside the railway tracks fascinated by the sight of the haughty engine drivers speeding by, roughly snatch the tokens he held up for them, and then rudely throw their tokens kept in small leather pouches mounted on large cane rings at a distance for him to fetch and hand over to the signalman, his resolve became stronger and stronger, and Chotte Lal’s father dreamed of the moment when his son, sitting in the driver’s seat, would pick up the token from him.

The day his dutiful obedient son Chotte Lal was selected as an engine driver, his father was so overjoyed, that he celebrated all night, indulging himself so much that he died of liver failure in the morning.

Now let’s get back to our story and see what our hero Chotte Lal is up to.

Chotte Lal walks into the driver running room. No one notices. His fellow drivers are busy playing cards.

“See. See. My poem has been published,” Chotte Lal says excitedly holding out the newspaper.

A driver takes the newspaper from his hands and says. “Hey, look, there is going to be a pay hike…” and he begins reading the headlines from the front page as the others listen.

“No. No. Not there. My poem is on the back page,” Chotte Lal says.

“Where?”

Chotte Lal turns the paper and shows him.

“Good,” the driver says even without reading the poem, turns back to the first page and begins reading aloud details of the pay hike.

“Illiterate Greedy Dopes. Bloody Riff Raff…! Only interested in money,” Chotte Lal says in anger snatching the paper.

“Oh yes, we are illiterates worried about money, not philosophers like you wasting your time writing poetry,” someone says.

“Why don’t you become a Professor instead of wasting time here?” another taunts.

“Or join the film industry, write poems for songs, sher-shairy…” they jeer.

Chotte Lal walks out in a huff.

But let me tell you dear reader that the drivers are right.

Chotte Lal certainly doesn’t belong here amongst this hard drinking rough and earthy fraternity.

Chotte Lal lives on a higher plane – while his compatriots drink and gamble to pass their time in their leisure and changeover breaks, Chotte Lal reads, and now, he writes.

Had Chotte Lal got the proper opportunity he would be a man of erudition, but as I have already told you, circumstances willed otherwise and poor Chotte Lal he had no choice.

Chotte Lal is a good engine driver. He is happy in his job and content with life. He never gets bored with the long waits for he always carries with him a good book to read. And now he’s started writing – yes, creative writing.

Chotte Lal always wanted to write but did not know how till one evening, while waiting for a signal, the glorious spectacle of the setting sun, the picturesque countryside, the villagers hurrying home, the birds chirping returning to their nests, the endless tracks disappearing into the horizon in front of him, the whole scene in its entirety, inspired him so much that the spark of creativity was ignited within him and for the first time he poured out his inner feelings on paper, and thereby was born his first creative effort, a poem – Waiting for the Signal.

Chotte Lal lives in a typical railway town, a relic of the Raj, with its spacious well laid out railway colony with huge bungalows and neat cottages, amidst plenty of greenery and expanse.

This quaint mofussil town boasts of a newspaper – a four page tabloid really.

The back page of this local rag features crosswords, tit-bits, and creative contributions from readers, which Chotte Lal always reads with avid interest and it was his dream to see his own creative writing printed right there on that page one day.

So he neatly wrote down his first creative composition “Waiting for the Signal” on a foolscap sheet of paper torn from his daughter’s notebook and personally submitted his contribution to the editor who gave him an amused look and said, “We’ll see!”

Chotte Lal waited, and waited, almost lost hope, and now, at long last, his poem had been published.

Chotte Lal walks conspicuously towards the exit of the Railway Station, deliberately stopping by at the Station Master’s Office, the ASMs, the Train Clerks, the TTEs, yearning for appreciation, hoping someone would say something, but all he gets is smiles of forced geniality.

“Useless fellows!” he says to himself, and then begins walking fast towards his house eager to show his poem to his wife and children.

Seeing Chotte Lal walk past his dhaba without even a glance in that direction, Ram Bharose senses something terribly is wrong, for every time Chotte Lal returns from duty he always stops by at Ram Bharose’s Dhaba for a cup of tea and to pick up a parcel of Anda-Bun for Engine, his pet dog.

As always, Engine is the first to welcome him at the compound gate of his home and gives him the customary enthusiastic reception, playful, vigorously wagging his tail, barking, jumping, running – but today Chotte Lal’s response is different – he just walks by –  no hugging, no fondling, no baby-talk and most importantly no Anda-Bun.

Engine is confused at his Master’s odd behaviour and follows him loyally towards the door of the cottage.

Chotte Lal rings the bell.

His wife of twenty years opens the door, gives him a preoccupied look, and begins walking towards the kitchen.

“See, See,” Chotte Lal says with childlike enthusiasm, “My poem had been published in the newspaper.”

“Poem…? What Poem…?” his wife asks.

Chotte Lal hands over the tabloid to his wife and shows her the poem – Waiting for the Signal.

His wife gives it a cursory glance and asks, “How much did they pay you for it…?”

“Pay me…? What are you talking…?” Chotte Lal asks puzzled.

“Yes. Pay you. Don’t tell me you are doing this for charity. Or maybe the poem is so third rate that they haven’t thought it worth even a paisa,” his wife says scornfully.

“Please!” Chotte Lal raises his voice getting angry, “This beautiful poem is the fruit of my creative effort, not some item for sale. Where is the question of money? You will never understand the value of creative reward!”

“Creative reward my foot…! This good for nothing local rag prints a poem of yours and you are boasting as if you have won the Nobel Prize…!” his wife mocks. “Why don’t you stop wasting your time doing all this nonsense and join my brother’s transport business – he wants to make you the Regional Manager.”

“I don’t want to go to the city.”

“You want to rot in this godforsaken place driving engines all your life?”

“I like my job. I like this place. I like to read and write.”

“Oh yes, now all you will be doing is wasting your time and your effort writing all this nonsense for free, when you could be earning handsomely if you put in the same efforts elsewhere!”

“I am happy where I am and content with what I have.”

“Oh, sure. You are happy to live in a gutter and watch other men climb mountains!”

“Papa, Mama is right,” his daughter interjects appearing suddenly, “Why don’t you retire and take your pension and then take up the job uncle is offering you as regional manager in his transport business and let us all move to the city…?”

“Here, here,” the father says excitedly, giving the newspaper to his daughter, “My poem is published today. Read it and tell me how you like it.”

“You can read it later. Have your breakfast first,” her mother says sternly, “you’re getting late for college.”

“Take the newspaper with you. Show my poem to your friends, your teacher,” he says.

A horn honks. The girl puts the newspaper in her bag and rushes out. Chotte Lal excitedly runs behind his daughter towards the gate and shouts to her, “My poem is on the back page…it is called Waiting for the Signal…”

A boy is waiting for her on a motorcycle. Maybe it’s her college classmate, her boyfriend, maybe… Chotte Lal realises how little he knows about his children.

His son – he has already gone to the city to work in his uncle’s company. He is obsessed with earning money and has no time for the finer things of life. Like mother like son. He feels sad. It’s a pity, a real pity.

There is nothing worse for a man than to realise that his wife, his son are ashamed of him.

Maybe his daughter will appreciate his poem, his talent, his creative genius, his worth – after all she is a student of arts.

He looks at his daughter. She is talking to the boy, pointing to the rear seat, telling him it is dirty.

Then, she takes out the precious newspaper which Chotte Lal has given her. Chotte Lal looks on in anticipation. Maybe his daughter is going to show the poem to the boy.

Yes, Chotte Lal’s daughter does take out the newspaper from her bag. But she doesn’t even open it, leave alone showing her father’s poem to her friend. She just crumples the newspaper and wipes the motorcycle seat with it and throws it on the ground.

Then she sits on the seat and they drive off on the motorcycle.

Chotte Lal experiences a pain much worse than if a knife had pierced through his heart.

His dog Engine rushes out, picks up the newspaper in his mouth, brings it to Chotte Lal, drops it at his feet and begs for his treat.

Suddenly Chotte Lal realises he has forgotten to get Engine’s customary treat – the Anda-Bun.

“Come,” he says to Engine.

He picks up the newspaper and they both, Master and dog, walk towards Ram Bharose’s Dhaba.

Chotte Lal looks at Engine as he happily cavorts and gambols in spontaneous delight at this unexpected outing.

“And now you have got a Pie Dog, a Mongrel,” his wife was furious when he had got the tiny abandoned pup whose mother had been run over by a train.

First he used to take the baby puppy along with him in his Engine, and his assistant driver named the pup “Engine”. But soon the word spread and he got a memo.

Since then Engine remained home, and whenever Chotte Lal was away on duty, poor Engine was dependent on the reluctant love of his wife who Chotte Lal suspected actually liked the cheerful dog.

They reach Ram Bharose’s Dhaba.

“What happened, Driver Sahib, you didn’t take your usual Anda-Bun parcel…?” Ram Bharose says.

“I forgot,” Chotte Lal says, “Give me one Anda-Bun now, and a cup of tea.”

Chotte Lal thinks of showing the poem to Ram Bharose, but hesitates. The poor guy may barely be literate. And if educated people like his colleagues, even his wife, and daughter, no one could appreciate his creative composition, how can he expect this country bumpkin to do so.

So he sits down and decides to read his own poem to himself – celebrate his own personal victory, and not be dependent on others for his happiness.

He gives the Anda-Bun to his delighted dog Engine who sits at his feet and starts polishing it off hungrily.

Then he sips the piping hot rejuvenating tea and starts reading the poem to himself.

Suddenly he feels a nudge on his feet – it’s Engine, prodding with his paw, looking up expectantly at him, eyes dazzling, making a sound, talking, trying to say something.

“Want to hear my poem…?” Chotte Lal lovingly asks his pet dog Engine, affectionately caressing the dog’s ears.

Engine gets up, nods his head, places it on Chotte Lal’s knee adoringly, and wags his tail.

As Chotte Lal reads his poem “Waiting at the Signal”, his devoted dog Engine listens to His Master’s voice with rapt attention, his eyes glued on Chotte Lal’s face, and his tail wagging in appreciation.

After he finishes reading the poem, Chotte Lal looks lovingly at Engine. Engine looks back at him with frank admiration, wags his tail, and proffers his paw as a “shake hand” gesture.

Chotte Lal is overwhelmed with emotion. He orders one more Anda-Bun for Engine.

Delighted at his Master’s sudden spurt of generosity, Engine gratefully devours the delicious Anda-Bun and looks pleadingly at Chotte Lal as if saying: “Encore.”

“You want to hear once again,” Chotte Lal asks Engine, who again keeps his head tenderly on Chotte Lal’s knee, looks up lovingly at his Master, continuously wagging his tail, listening with rapt attention to his Master’s voice, waiting for him to finish, in eager anticipation for his reward of an Anda-Bun.

Many such recitations and Anda-Buns later, dog and master, Engine and Chotte Lal walk back home.

Chotte Lal looks admiringly at Engine – his sincere patron, a true connoisseur who understands, appreciates.

He gets the inner urge to write, to express, to say something – Engine has ignited the spark of creativity within him.

Moments later, the creativity within him unleashed, Chotte Lal sits at his desk and pours out his latent emotions, his inner feelings, on paper, writing poem after poem, while his darling pet dog, his stimulus, his inspiration, his muse, his motivating “Engine”, sits loyally by his side looking lovingly at his Master with undisguised affection.

And so, the Railway Engine Driver Chotte Lal creates and his “Creative Engine” inspires and appreciates – they sit together in sublime unison – the Poet and his Muse – in perfect creative harmony.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. He has written a foodie book Appetite For A Stroll and a book of fiction short stories which is being published soon and is busy writing his first novel. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve:

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

vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book:

Appetite for a Stroll
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.