Vikram SPEND SO MUCH TIME IMPROVING YOURSELF THAT YOU HAVE NO TIME LEFT TO CRITICIZE OTHERS OR LISTENING TO NEGATIVE CRITICISM
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IF YOU KICK ME I WILL LICK YOU but IF YOU LICK ME I WILL KICK YOU - IF YOU WANT RESPECT FROM SOMEONE YOU MUST TREAT THAT PERSON LIKE DIRT
Friday, January 27, 2012
IF YOU WANT RESPECT FROM SOMEONE YOU MUST TREAT THAT PERSON LIKE DIRT
IF YOU KICK ME I WILL LICK YOU but IF YOU LICK ME I WILL KICK YOU
“If You Want Respect From Someone You Must Treat That Person Like Dirt”.
Believe it or not, this is the startling lesson I have learnt from my personal experience and I am yet to recover from my state of disbelief. Let me tell you about it.
Exactly three months ago, my 78 year old widowed mother had a serious accident involving multiple fractures and injuries. She was in a critical condition when I rushed her to hospital. My wife rushed to the hospital from work. My mother underwent multiple surgeries and was hospitalized for around 15 days and was in a bedridden condition. During her stay in hospital my wife was constantly at her bedside, day and night, caring for her, even cleaning her defecating pots and urine pans. Even after my mother was discharged from hospital she continued to be bedridden and my wife nursed her with dedication and selfless devotion. For over two months our lives had turned topsy-turvy – we had to lock up our house, keep taking off from work, send my daughter to my in-laws’ place, and even when my seafarer son arrived on a month’s leave, we could not properly spend time with him. All members of my family accepted the situation good-naturedly.
My sister was on a holiday abroad when the mishap took place. She was informed of the seriousness of the accident. However, she did not cut short her visit and return immediately. In fact, she was thinking of extending her stay when someone put some sense into her head and she returned to India as per schedule almost a week after the accident, by which time two major surgeries were over, and the stress, tension and brunt of the situation was already borne by us, especially my wife.
When my sister landed up in hospital to see our mother, I expected that she would now share some hospital duties with my exhausted wife who had spent more than a week of sleepless nights tending to my mother and then going for work whole day, when I would stay in hospital. I asked my sister to stay for a few days so that my wife could recoup her energies, but I was stunned when my sister announced that she would be only staying for a day, and the next day, along with her husband, she went back to her home in Mumbai (which is just a three hours drive away). I wanted to protest to my mother and tell her to talk to my sister, but my wife silenced me saying that my mother was still not well and we should not give her unnecessary stress.
After we brought our mother to her home the workload increased even more, as in addition to nursing my bedridden mother, my wife had to do the cooking and housework too. She had to get up early, complete all the house work, then catch her bus to work, return in the evening, slog it out once again, and then sleep whole night on the couch next to my mother who would keep waking her for nature’s calls.
Seeing the strain taking its toll on my wife’s health, I asked my sister to come down for some time, at least a week or 10 days, and look after our mother so that my wife could get some well deserved rest. I also told her that her kids were well settled (her daughter is married and her son is working in America) whereas my son had come on a month’s leave, my daughter’s studies had to be looked into, and we wanted to stay together as a family and sort out some urgent pending domestic affairs.
I was shocked when my sister refused to come. You will not believe the excuse she gave: “My husband is not allowing me to go as he cannot stay alone for a week.” I was even more surprised when my mother accepted this lame excuse saying that a wife has to listen to her husband and that it is the duty of the son (and daughter-in-law) to look after his parents and once a daughter gets married it is not her responsibility to look after her parents.
So we had no choice but to accept the fait accompli and continue to care, nurse and look after my mother till she recovers since my sister is shirking her responsibility.
Yesterday, I got a shock of my life when I came to know that my sister was flying abroad to America for nearly two months to visit her son. This made me really angry. On the one hand my sister’s husband could not spare her for a week to look after her hospitalised mother but now he was “allowing” her to go America for two months. Earlier he could not stay alone just for a week and now he does not mind living alone in Mumbai for two months. This is the height of double standards and hypocrisy. She cannot spare one week to look after her ailing bedridden mother who desperately needs her but she can easily spare two months for holidaying abroad with her son in America.
In fact, even now my mother cannot stay alone and needs someone to look after her due to which I am living with her and it will be a great help for all of us even now if my sister can come for a month or so and live with my mother, look after her and boost her spirits. But no - for this her husband won't spare her since he cannot live without his wife for a month (not even a week), though he will quite happily live alone if she goes abroad for two months to holiday with her son!
How can anyone condone or justify such despicable behaviour? What astounds me is that despite all this, my mother accepts, rationalises and defends my sister’s behaviour and though my sister treats her like dirt she continues to blatantly favour my sister and gives a raw deal to my wife despite the fact that it is my wife who has always come to my mother's rescue in times of need and has selflessly served her with love and dedication. I am puzzled by all this and maybe the lesson I need to learn is: If You Want Respect From Someone You Must Treat That Person Like Dirt otherwise people will take you for granted.
I will put it in a nutshell for you. Just remember this saying:
IF YOU KICK ME I WILL LICK YOU but IF YOU LICK ME I WILL KICK YOU.
Strange are the ways of the human mind and one can never understand the mysteries of human nature and the paradoxes of human behaviour.
Do you agree? What are your life experiences? Any Comments?
THE GIFT - My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 39
Friday, January 27, 2012
My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 39
THE GIFT
By
VIKRAM KARVE
From my Creative Archives:
I wrote this story around fifteen years ago.
Maybe you will find it written in quite an old-fashioned style.
Do tell me if you like it.
I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act.
I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.
The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her.
A man’s first love fills an enduring place in his heart.
Ten years. Ten long years.
She had married money.
And status.
I was heartbroken.
Yet I bore her no pique or rancour.
I never will.
How can I...?
I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her, always, till my dying day.
I was desperately eager to impress her.
To give her a gift would be too obvious.
I did not know how much she had told her husband about me... about us...
Her children should be the same age as mine.
Maybe slightly older.
They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children.
I looked at the packet under my arm.
A gift.
Yes, the “Gift”... the deluxe set of children’s encyclopaedias I had promised my son... and my daughter... year after year... for the last three years... and did not buy... because it was too expensive.
And now I was going to present the same "expensive" encyclopaedias as a gift to Anjali’s children... just to impress her.
As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation.
Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me.
The door opened.
Anjali looked ravishing.
She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv... after so many years... what a delightful surprise... how did you manage to find me...?"
We looked at each other.
Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning.
She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.
“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.
“You look so beautiful. And so young...”
“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.
Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”
Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere.
Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanour slick and confident. No wonder... to "belong" had always been the driving force of her life. Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.
“You like my house...?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”
I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.
Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here...? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”
I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”
Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.
“You don’t trust cops, do you...?” I smiled.
Anjali blushed. She kept the wallet on the table. She looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS...? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you...? Superintendent...? Deputy Commissioner...?”
Now it was my turn to blush. “No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”
“Oh...” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.
But I had read the language of her eyes.
The nuance wasn’t lost on me.
Suddenly she had changed.
“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.
“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.
“Oh... I thought he would be home,” I said.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.
“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk,” I said looking at my watch, “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”
“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.”
She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly.
I got the message loud and clear.
Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find the purse...?”
“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied.
“It’s strange,” Anjali said, “He didn’t mention anything.”
“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”
“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look.
Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license.
At first she appeared confused.
Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything.
There was a long period of silence. Grotesque silence.
Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes.
A distant look. Almost dismissive.
I began to feel uneasy.
Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children...? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids...”
From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong.
I saw tears well up in her eyes.
All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable.
I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me. Poor thing, she had no kids, and I had rubbed salt in hr wounds.
I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use.
Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain.
The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.
We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence. A grotesque silence.
It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.
I could not bear it any longer.
I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door.
Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift.
But I did not turn back.
Why...?
I do not know.
“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.
I stopped in my tracks.
I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me.
I turned around to face her.
She seemed a bit composed.
“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”
I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.
“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded. "Please tell me where you found this purse..."
When in doubt, I speak the truth. “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….”
I could not continue, so I said apologetically, “I’m sorry... I didn’t know...”
“I know... Oh yes I know...” Anjali said mockingly, “That impotent creep... trying to prove his virility to himself...”
With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage.
I looked at her.
Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant... her fury was visible only in her eyes.
I was nonplussed.
Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”
I still don’t know why I uttered those words, but on hearing them there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali.
Suddenly she became flaming mad.
She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened.
Terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, I instinctively stepped back.
But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room.
I waited, as if pole-axed, frozen like a statue for a moment and after regaining my composure I decided to leave and started to move towards the door.
“Wait... ” I heard her scream.
I stopped in my tracks and turned around.
Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand.
She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it...? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it...? Even from me...? You unscrupulous dog... I didn’t expect you to fall so low... here - take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband, don’t you...?”
“No, Anjali,” I recoiled. “Please don’t ………..”
“Cheap...” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff... that’s what you always were, Sanjiv... Now you get out of my house you filthy blackmailer... and I don't want to see your face again...”
She threw the bundle of notes at me.
It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.
“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.
“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it...?”
Anjali paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you...? You must be so happy to see my "success"...?”
Her vicious and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else.
I turned around and walked out of the house.
As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back.
I winced in pain.
The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopaedias were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn.
I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me.
But I did not look back at her.
I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.
As I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was at home in my bed.
Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.
Slowly things began to come into focus.
My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed.
She touched my arm with tenderness.
There were tears in her eyes.
My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.
There was fear in his eyes.
My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy...”
She was holding the set of encyclopaedias in her hands.
I smiled and reached out to them.
They held my hands and smiled back.
I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.
For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children.
A love which I had never felt before.
Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.
I had discovered love.
Yes, I had discovered the true meaning of love – I had discovered the gift of love.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
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 reading this story?
I am sure you will like the 27 stories in COCKTAIL
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-81910
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-ka
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU 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 short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, 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 research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram 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: vikramkarve@sify.com
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
THE UMBRELLA MAN - My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 38
Thursday, January 26, 2012
THE UMBRELLA MAN
My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 38
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Roald Dahl is a true master of the craft of writing short fiction. He writes with refreshing flair and an inimitable humorous style and varies and adapts his writing style to attract his target audience. He has written stories for adults as well as for children – in fact he was more famous as a children’s writer.
Here is one of my favourite Roald Dahl stories – The Umbrella Man. Notice his narrative skill as he tells the story from the viewpoint of a 12 year old girl.
The Umbrella Man by Roald Dahl is freely available on the internet and I am giving a few links below and also for your convenience, I am pasting the story below from one of the links mentioned:
http://thotprocess.wordpress.com/2006/06/28/the-umbrella-man/
www.daltonvoorburg.nl/file/5154/1068724161/The+Umbrella+Man.doc
http://gv.pl/index.php/szkola/e-books/pdf/the_umbrella_man.pdf
The Umbrella Man
by
Roald Dahl
I’m going to tell you about a funny thing that happened to my mother and me yesterday evening. I am twelve years old and I’m a girl. My mother is thirty-four but I am nearly as tall as her already.
Yesterday afternoon, my mother took me up to London to see the dentist. He found one hole. It was in a back tooth and he filled it without hurting me too much. After that, we went to a café. I had a banana split and my mother had a cup of coffee. By the time we got up to leave, it was about six o'clock.
When we came out of the café it had started to rain.
“We must get a taxi," my mother said. We were wearing ordinary hats and coats, and it was raining quite hard. "Why don't we go back into the café and wait for it to stop?" I said. I wanted another of those banana splits. They were gorgeous. “It isn't going to stop," my mother said. "We must go home." We Stood on the pavement in the rain, looking for a taxi. Lots of them came by but they all had passengers inside them. "I wish we had a car with a chauffeur," my mother said.
Just then, a man came up to us. He was a small man and he was pretty old, probably seventy or more. He raised his hat politely and said to my mother "Excuse me. I do hope you will excuse me. . . ." He had a fine white moustache and bushy white eyebrows and a wrinkly pink face. He was sheltering under an umbrella which he held high over his head.
"Yes?" my mother said, very cool and distant. "I wonder if I could ask a small favour of you. " he said. "It is only a very small favour." I saw my mother looking at him suspiciously. She is a suspicious person, my mother. She is especially suspicious of two things - strange men and boiled eggs.
When she cuts the top off a boiled egg, she pokes around inside it with her spoon as though expecting to find a mouse or something. With strange men she has a golden rule which says, "The nicer the man seems to be, the more suspicious you must become." This little old man was particularly nice. He was polite. He was well-spoken. He was well-dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a gentleman was because of his shoes. "You can always spot a gentleman by the shoes he wears," was another of my mother's favourite sayings. This man had beautiful brown shoes.
"The truth of the matter is," the little man was saying, "I've got myself into a bit of a scrape. I need some help. Not much, I assure you. It's almost nothing, in fact, but I do need it. You see, madam, old people like me often become terribly forgetful. . . ." My mother's chin was up and she was staring down at him along the full length of her nose. It is a fearsome thing, this frosty-nosed stare of my mother's. Most people go to pieces completely when she gives it to them.
I once saw my own headmistress begin to stammer and simper like an idiot when my mother gave her a really foul frosty-noser. But the little man on the pavement with the umbrella over his head didn't bat an eyelid.
He gave a gentle smile and said, "I beg you to believe, madam, that I am not in the habit of stopping ladies in the street and telling them my troubles." "I should hope not, " my mother said.
I felt quite embarrassed by my mother's sharpness. I wanted to say to her, "Oh, mummy, for heaven's sake, he's a very very old man, and he's sweet and polite, and he's in some sort of trouble, so don't be so beastly to him." But I didn't say anything.
The little man shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other. "I've never forgotten it before," he said.
"You've never forgotten what?" my mother asked sternly.
"My wallet," he said. "I must have left it in my other jacket. Isn't that the silliest thing to do?" "Are you asking me to give you money?" my mother said.
"Oh, goodness gracious me, no!" he cried. "Heaven forbid I should ever do that!" "Then what are you asking?" my mother said. "Do hurry up. We're getting soaked to the skin standing here." "I know you are," he said. " And that is why I’m offering you this umbrella of mine to protect you, and to keep forever, if . . . if only . . ." "If only what?" my mother said.
"If only you would give me in return a pound for my taxi-fare just to get me home." My mother was still suspicious. "If you had no money in the first place," she said, "then how did you get here?" "I walked," he answered. "Every day I go for a lovely long walk and then I summon a taxi to take me home. I do it every day of the year." "Why don't you walk home now," my mother asked.
"Oh, I wish I could, " he said. "I do wish I could. But I don't think I could manage it on these silly old legs of mine. I've gone too far already." My mother stood there chewing her lower lip. She was beginning to melt a bit, I could see that. And the idea of getting an umbrella to shelter under must have tempted her a good deal.
"It's a lovely umbrella," the little man said.
"So I’ve noticed," my mother said.
"It's silk, " he said.
"I can see that." "Then why don't you take it, madam," he said. "It cost me over twenty pounds, I promise you. But that's of no importance so long as I can get home and rest these old legs of mine." I saw my mother's hand feeling for the clasp on her purse. She saw me watching her. I was giving her one of my own frosty-nosed looks this time and she knew exactly what I was telling her. Now listen, mummy, I was telling her, you simply mustn't take advantage of a tired old man in this way. It's a rotten thing to do. My mother paused and looked back at me. Then she said to the little man, "I don't think it's quite right that I should take a silk umbrella from you worth twenty pounds. I think I'd just better give you the taxi-fare and be done with it." "No, no, no!" he cried. "It's out of the question! I wouldn't dream of it! Not in a million years! I would never accept money from you like that! Take the umbrella, dear lady, and keep the rain off your shoulders!" My mother gave me a triumphant sideways look.
There you are, she was telling me. You're wrong. He wants me to have it.
She fished into her purse and took out a pound note.
She held it out to the little man. He took it and handed her the umbrella. He pocketed the pound, raised his hat, gave a quick bow from the waist, and said. "Thank you, madam, thank you. " Then he was gone.
"Come under here and keep dry, darling," my mother said. "Aren't we lucky. I've never had a silk umbrella before. I couldn't afford it." "Why were you so horrid to him in the beginning?" I asked.
"I wanted to satisfy myself he wasn't a trickster," she said. " And I did. He was a gentleman. I'm very pleased I was able to help him." "Yes, mummy," I said.
"A real gentleman," she went on. "Wealthy, too, otherwise he wouldn't have had a silk umbrella. I shouldn't be surprised if he isn't a titled person. Sir Harry Goldsworthy or something like that." "Yes, mummy." "This will be a good lesson to you," she went on.
"Never rush things. Always take your time when you are summing someone up. Then you'll never make mistakes." "There he goes," I said. "Look." "Where?" "Over there. He's crossing the street. Goodness, mummy, what a hurry he's in." We watched the little man as he dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the other side of the street, he turned left, walking very fast.
"He doesn't look very tired to me, does he to you, mummy?" My mother didn't answer.
"He doesn't look as though he's trying to get a taxi, either," I said.
My mother was standing very still and stiff, staring across the street at the little man. We could see him clearly. He was in a terrific hurry. He was bustling along the pavement, sidestepping the other pedestrians and swinging his arms like a soldier on the march.
"He's up to something," my mother said, stony-faced.
"But what?" "I don't know," my mother snapped. "But I’m going to find out. Come with me." She took my arm and we crossed the street together. Then we turned left.
"Can you see him?" my mother asked.
"Yes. There he is. He's turning right down the next street." We came to the corner and turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He was scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk fast to keep up with him. The rain was pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from the brim of his hat onto his shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our lovely big silk umbrella.
"What is he up to?" my mother said.
"What if he turns round and sees us?" I asked.
"I don't care if he does, " my mother said. "He lied to us. He said he was too tired to walk any further and he's practically running us off our feet! He's a barefaced liar! He's a crook!" "you mean he's not a titled gentleman?" I asked.
"Be quiet, " she said.
At the next crossing, the little man turned right again.
Then he turned left.
Then right.
"I’m not giving up now," my mother said.
"He's disappeared!" I cried. "Where's he gone?" "He went in that door!" my mother said. "I saw him!
Into that house! Great heavens, it's a pub!"
It was a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION.
"You're not going in, are you, mummy?" , "No," she said. "We'll watch from outside." There was a big plate-glass window along the front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see through it very well if we went close.
We stood huddled together outside the pub window.
I was clutching my mother's arm. The big raindrops were making aloud noise on our umbrella. "There he is," I said. "Over there." The room we were looking into was full of people and cigarette smoke, and our little man was in the middle of it all. He was now without his hat or coat, and he was edging his way through the crowd toward the bar. When he reached it, he placed bath hands on the bar itself and spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving as he gave his order. The barman turned away from him for a few seconds and came back with a smallish tumbler filled to the brim with light brown liquid.
The little man placed a pound note on the counter.
"That's my pound!" my mother hissed. "By golly he's got a nerve!" "What's in the glass?" I asked.
"Whiskey," my mother said. "Neat whiskey." The barman didn't give him any change from the pound.
"That must be a treble whiskey," my mother said.
"What's a treble?" I asked.
"Three times the normal measure," she answered.
The little man picked up the glass and put it to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher. . . and higher. . . and higher. . . and very soon all the whiskey had disappeared down his throat in one long pour.
"That was a jolly expensive drink," I said.
"It's ridiculous!" my mother said. "Fancy paying a pound for something you swallow in one go!" "It cost him more than a pound, " I said. "It cost him a twenty pound silk umbrella." "So it did," my mother said. "He must be mad." The little man was standing by the bar with the empty glass in his hand. He was smiling now, and a sort of golden glow of pleasure was spreading over his round pink face. I saw his tongue come out to lick the white moustache, as though searching for the last drop of that precious whiskey.
Slowly, he turned away from the bar and edged back through the crowd to where his hat and coat were hanging. He put on his hat. He put on his coat. Then, in a manner so superbly cool and casual that you hardly noticed anything at all, he lifted from the coatrack one of the many wet umbrellas hanging there, and off he went.
"Did you see that!" my mother shrieked. "Did you see what he did!" "Ssshh!" I whispered. "He's coming out!" We lowered the umbrella to hide our faces and peeped out from under it.
Out he came. But he never looked in our direction.
He opened his new umbrella over his head and scurried off down the road the way he had come.
"So that's his little game!" my mother said.
"Neat, " I said. "Super." We followed him back to the main street where we had first met him, and we watched him as he proceeded, with no trouble at all, to exchange his new umbrella for another pound note. This time it was with a tall thin fellow who didn't even have a coat or hat. And as soon as the transaction was completed, our little man trotted off down the street and was lost in the crowd. But this time he went in the opposite direction.
"You see how clever he is!" my mother said. "He never goes to the same pub twice!" "He could go on doing this all night, " I said.
"Yes," my mother said. "Of course. But I'll bet he prays like mad for rainy days."
Notice how Roald Dahl successfully holds you in suspense and keeps you guessing and eager to know what is going to happen next and end the story with a delightful twist. I love reading this entertaining story again and again.
Happy Reading.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this review.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
Dear Reader - if you liked this story, I am sure you will love the stories in my book COCKTAIL - a collection of 27 stories about relationships.
Relationships are like cocktails. Every relationship is a unique labyrinthine melange of emotions, shaken and stirred, and, like each cocktail, has a distinctive flavour and taste. The twenty-seven stories in this collection explore fascinating aspects of modern day relationships: love, romance, sex, betrayal, marriage, parenting and even pet parenting. You will relish reading these riveting cocktails of intermingling emotions narrated in a temptingly engaging style, and once you start reading you will find this delicious “cocktail” unputdownable till the very end.
Do try out this delicious, heady and exciting COCKTAIL – to order your Cocktail just click any of the links below:
FLIPKART
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-81910
INDIAPLAZA
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
APK PUBLISHERS PUNE
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-ka
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9
Cheers – enjoy your Cocktail
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU 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. 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. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram 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: vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@gmail.com
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
FEEL GOOD FOOD
Thursday, January 26, 2012
HUNGRY and LONELY in WAKAD - Time for some FEEL GOOD FOOD
Feel Good Food
ORANGE CHICKEN
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Feeling Low, in a blue mood?
That's how I am feeling right now. Hungry and Lonely in Wakad. I need to feel good. So I am going to do something to cheer me up and brighten my spirits. I am going to cook myself an Orange Chicken.
Let me tell you the recipe for this marvellous hot tangy chicken dish, innovative, passionate, something different, and breathtaking in its simplicity, which is guaranteed to warm your insides, zest up your palate, lift your spirits, pep you up and fill you with cheer.
Go to your neighbourhood supermarket or store, pick up a one kilogram packet of frozen jointed chicken pieces and a few cartons of fruit juices (we’ll use orange juice for this recipe, I’ll tell you a few recipes with other juices too, and I am sure you will innovate and discover new one’s of your own).
Okay, you’ll need a juicy lemon, a 100 gram packet of butter, a teaspoon of cornflour, a spoon of red chilli powder and a bit of salt and pepper, that’s all.
First thaw the chicken pieces, squeeze the lemon over it, add chilli powder, salt and pepper, mix well and let it marinate for an hour or two.
Heat the butter in a pan and fry on low heat till the chicken is nicely cooked and dry.
In case the chicken starts to stick while cooking add some lemon juice and dollops of butter from time to time.
But at the end the chicken must be golden brown and dry from outside and succulent and tender from inside – oh, yes, do taste and confirm while cooking!
Let the chicken cook for sometime.
Now let us make the orange sauce while the chicken is cooking.
In a saucer, make a paste of cornflour and a little orange juice.
Boil a large glass of orange juice on high heat and when it becomes about half the quantity, briskly stir in the cornflour paste, and keep stirring till it thickens, and pour the bubbling hot syrup over the hot cooked chicken.
If you want to indulge in some passionate foodie romance, ignite your foodie date, eat the tangy zesty orange flavoured chicken hot and fresh with your loved one, all cuddled up and romantic.
Remember, you must finish it off in one go, nice and hot.
The dish it loses its pepping-up effect if re-warmed.
(By the Way, the word "Dish" refers to the orange chicken).
Try this zesty dish whenever you are in the blue mood and see for yourself how you cheer up and feel good.
Happy Eating.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
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 recipe?
I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-81910
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-ka
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
If your are a Foodie you will like my book of Food Adventures APPETITE FOR A STROLL. Do order a copy from FLIPKART:
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU 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 short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, 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 research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram 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: vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@gmail.com
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
DO YOU REMEMBER THE MOMENT WHEN YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR WIFE ?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
DO YOU REMEMBER THE MOMENT WHEN YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR WIFE ?
Short Fiction – A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
For those who have been lucky to have a love marriage, there is an important day to celebrate called wedding anniversary.
For me and my wife, surviving one of those quintessential arranged marriages, our wedding anniversary is just another day.
That is why, instead of romancing each other over candlelight dinner, my wife and I are browsing books at the bookstore.
Suddenly my wife says to me, “Arun, look...!”
“Where?” I ask.
“There, near the window – look at the woman in the red dress,” my wife says, pointing her hand.
I look at the woman in the red dress.
“Don’t you know who she is?” my wife asks excitedly.
“No,” I say.
“She is Nisha – the famous romantic author,” my wife says ardently.
“I’ve never heard of her,” I say nonchalantly.
“You come with me,” my wife says and I follow her towards the bestseller rack near the entrance, where she pulls out a paperback from the shelf and shows me the photo of the woman in the red dress on the back-cover.
“Yes, it is her,” I say, “let’s go home.”
“Come, Arun, let’s meet her and get her autograph on this book…” my wife says.
“No…” I interrupt, “she’s browsing…she won’t like to be disturbed…let’s go…” I say and I turn towards the exit.
“Please…”
“No…don’t give these authors too much importance…let’s go home…” I say irritably, motioning my wife with my eyes.
“You go. I’m going to get her autograph on this book,” my wife says, and she starts walking towards the woman in red who is still absorbed nose deep into browsing the book in her hand.
I turn and quietly walk into the philosophy section and browse books.
After a while my wife comes and says, “She wants to meet you…”
“Who?”
“Nisha – the author…”
“But I don’t want to…”
“Hi Arun, remember me?” says the woman in the red dress suddenly appearing in front of me.
I am struck dumb.
“Arun and me had a real good time together in college,” the woman in the red dress says to my wife, then looks at me and says, “You remember what all we did, don’t you, Arun?”
I avert my eyes and I wish the earth below me would split and swallow me up.
“Hey Arun darling, you’ve told her all about us, haven’t you?” the woman in the red dress says loudly, digging her fangs into me like a snake, and seeing the horror-struck expression on my face the woman turns and speaks to my wife, “I am really sorry, but I thought there was no place for secrets between husband and wife….”
“Of course Arun has told me everything about you Nisha. Everything, he has told me every single thing,” my wife says emphatically to the woman in the red dress looking her in the eye, and then turns to me and says, “shall we go home, Arun ?”
Mesmerized, awestruck, I look at my wife and for the first time in my life I feel a flood of love for her.
That is the moment I fall in love with my wife.
Dear Reader:
Do you remember the moment when you fell in love with your wife?
You do?
Then why don't you tell us about it.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
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
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-81910
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-ka
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
If your are a Foodie you will like my book of Food Adventures APPETITE FOR A STROLL. Do order a copy from FLIPKART:
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU 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 short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, 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 research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram 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: vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@gmail.com
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.