Wednesday, August 31, 2011


The Poet and His Muse
Short Fiction - A Simple Story

From my Creative Writing Archives :  A Simple Story - one of my favourites. If you are a creative person, especially a writer, I am sure you will identify with this 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.


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 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.


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.

OLD IN AGE but YOUNG AT HEART - Anti Ageing Formula

ELIXIR OF LIFE - A delightful Anti-Ageing Formula
Zest for Living and Passion for Learning 

There are a number of retired senior citizens in the colony where I live in Pune. 

Yes, there are still large numbers of pensioners living all over Pune though Pune is no longer a pensioners’ paradise.

I have noticed one intriguing thing. 

Though most are of these persons are of the same chronological age, some are “young” and some are “old” - yes some appear young and some seem old - after all your age is what you feel.

Further observation reveals the anti ageing formula for remaining young: 

Zest for Living and Passion for Learning is the best anti-ageing recipe that keeps you young forever.

This is the true elixir of life.

Look around you and you will see what I mean. 

There are many oldie-goldies who are living life to the fullest and are always eager to learn new things and there are also others who have no “juice” left in them as they have lost the spirit to enjoy learning with enthusiasm and relish the pleasures of life to their utmost.

I know a “young” senior citizen who, after retirement, started learning classical music from the scratch, enjoyed studying for 10 years till he completed his sangeet alankar, living life to the fullest in true epicurean style – good food, music, concerts, plays, movies, travel, picnics, swimming, trekking, playing with his dogs, social work, you name it – he did it ... and with the advent of internet he is enjoying moments exploring the mysteries of the web, learning new things and latest technologies, actively blogging with passionate fervour, and with gusto doing all sorts of learning activites, creative writing, surfing, social networking, making virtual friends, teaching music – for him variety is the spice of life. He lives a delightfully active life, loves the company of youngsters and has the enthusiasm and energy of a child – and though in his late seventies he is “younger” than even those chronologically many years his junior and it is his zest for life and passion for knowledge that keeps him healthy, happy and youthful.

Remember you are as old as you feel, not as old as you look, nor are you as “old” as your chronologically age says you are. 

It is in your hands to forever remain a “young” senior citizen.

I will end this piece with a quote from Mahatma Gandhi:

Live as if you are going to die tomorrow
Learn as if you are going to live forever

It is breathtakingly simple to remain young forever, Dear Reader. 

It is all in the mind.

Here are some tips on how to feel young and forget your chronological age.  

1. Spend time in the company of young happy people.

It is better to spend your time with cheerful younsters who are enjoying life in the present rather than make yourself miserable in the company of pessimistic, gloomy, cynical old fogies who keep living in the past, carping and complaining about the present, and worrying about the future. It is better to remain with your family and kids rather than go to a retirement home (old age home). Teaching and mentoring youngsters (never give unsolicited advice or moral lectures) is rewarding and good too – I love to teach as I enjoy the company of cheerful motivated young students and this keeps me young and enthisuastic about learning too.

2. Get a Pet Dog. 

Another useful anti-aging technique is to get a pet dog and enjoy playing with your dog. Pet parenting and your pet dog's antics and will keep you happily occupied, cheerful and healthy, besides ensuring regular exercise as your pet dog will ensure you take him out on walks at least twice a day. There is nothing more joyful than playing with your dog and talking to him. This morning I gave my dog Sherry a vigorous bath and felt really young and energetic. A dog will bring out the child in you.

3. Rediscover your childlike enthusiasm.  

Stop reminiscing about the "good old days" and start living it up every day doing whatever you like with zest and passion to learn new things like blogging, social networking, making real friends and virtual friends with common interests and passions, exploring the mysteries internet and enjoying the benefits of information technology. Yes, keeping oneself uptodate and abreast of the latest technologies keeps one mentally stimulated. Use technology effectively to keep young.

4. Re-discover your romantic mischievous side.

Become “naughty” once again, have fun and discover the beauty and romance of life. Why not harmlessfly flirt a bit? Remember that the moment you stop appreciating and being attracted to beauty, you have become “old” and life is not worth living.

5. Learn new things, develop new hobbies and nurture your creative interests

Try to have a positive attitude and optimistic temperament and keep learning new things and nurture your creative interests, hobbies, exercise, play, travel, eat out, see movies, have a ball... 

All you’ve got to do is to have a zest for living and passion for learning.

First thing in the morning, the moment you get up, recite your new Art of Living Motto:

“Live as if you are going to die tomorrow, learn as if you are going to live forever”

Dear Reader, here's wishing you eternal youth - may you remain young forever with a a Zest for Living and a Passion for Learning.”

So Cheer Up and Live it Up...!!! 


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.

Did you like this article? 
I am sure you will like the stories in my recently published book COCKTAIL comprising twenty seven short stories about relationships. To know more please click the links below:

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 he 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 14 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:
Professional Profile Vikram Karve:
Vikram Karve Facebook Page
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog:

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Monday, August 29, 2011


A Teaching Story

This morning, during my early morning walk in the dense verdant lush green hills of Taljai in Pune, I saw a magnificent snake, a beautiful cobra, sliding majestically across the path in front of me and I remembered one of my favourite stories from the parables of Sri Ramakrishna:

A group of persons from a village went to a holy man, a Saint, who was meditating in a cave in the mountains. They were very scared and complained to the Saint about large venomous snake who was terrorizing everyone in the village.

“This terrible serpent’s hiss can be heard for miles around,” they said. “He mercilessly bites everyone – the snake does not spare anyone and attacks even our wives, our children, our cattle, our dogs, everyone. Even the bravest among us have become afraid to venture out into the fields, which are dry, parched, uncultivated. Our granaries are depleted and empty. Our numbers are dwindling from death by the snake, and by starvation. Please help us. You are a great Guru and you alone can subdue and vanquish him.”

The Saint, realizing the gravity of the situation, went to the village, to where the snake lived, and as he approached, the terrible venomous snake moved swiftly toward him with upraised hood. The terrified villagers ran away, leaving the Saint to deal with the snake. 

The Saint looked at snake, slithering and undulating, his scales shimmering in the sunlight, dark and shining in his majesty, awesome in his length and his beauty.

“Come forth, O Magnificent One,” the Saint called out to the snake, and mesmerized by the aura and charismatic presence of the Saint, the snake suddenly he lost all his ferocity and glided towards the Saint and coiled up meekly at the Saint’s feet in obeisance .

“O you beautiful creature, what is it that I hear about you being the scourge of the village? Leave your destructive ways. Be good. Don’t terrorize the poor villagers needlessly. Please stop biting them. Leave them alone,” the Saint said to the snake.

The snake bowed and nodded assent. He resolved to leave his evil ways and be good and promised the Saint that henceforth he would not bite anyone.

The venomous snake turned a new leaf, scrupulously kept his promise and began to live a life of innocence, without attempting to harm anyone.

The villagers were very happy, the fields flourished, the cattle grazed and the children came out to play fearlessly.

One day, several months later, the Saint passed by the village, searched for the snake and found the snake coiled near the root of a tree, lying mangled and half dead. The snake was utterly transformed. His scales had fallen off; he looked dilapidated, emaciated, innocuous, and badly injured. He had sores all over his body. The poor snake seemed to be on the verge of death.

“O My Dear Friend, what happened to you…?” the Saint asked the snake.

“This, O Guru, is the fruit of obedience, of being good. I obeyed you, I gave up my evil ways, I let the villagers alone, I stopped biting them, I stopped attacking them, and what happened to me? Now everyone pelts me with stones, beats me with sticks, even the children tease me and drag me mercilessly by the tail. But I have kept my promise that I made to you…”

The Saint smiled and lovingly said to the snake, “I exhorted you not to attack them, but I did not prohibit you from hissing… yes, my dear friend, I told you not to bite them, but did I ever tell you not to hiss …?”

The snake learned a lesson for life and henceforth got on in life safely.

Moral of the Story:



© vikram karve., all rights reserved. 



"Do you remember the first fiction short story you wrote...?" a young friend, and a fan of my writing, asked me this evening.

"Of course I remember," I said, "it was a short story called RENDEZVOUS AT SUNRISE."

"I am sure it was about your first crush...your first romance," she said.

"Yes," I said, "How did you guess...?"  

"I want to read it," she said, "why don't you post it on your blog."

"I have already..." I said.

"Why don't you post it once more..." she said.

So here is my first creative baby – a fiction short story written by me more than twenty years ago. It is a simple love story. I am sure you will love reading it.



Sunrise, on the eastern coast, is a special event.

I stood at Dolphin’s Nose, a spur jutting out in to the 
Bay of Bengal, to behold the breaking of the sun’s upper limb over the horizon of the sea.

As the eastern sky started unfolding like crimson petals of a gigantic flower, I was overcome by a wave of romance and nostalgia – vivid memories, not diminished by the fact that almost ten years had passed.
I was a young bachelor then, and Vizag (Visakhapatnam) did not have much to offer.

Every Sunday morning, I used to rise before dawn and head for Dolphin’s Nose to enjoy the resplendent spectacle of sun majestically rising out of the sea.

The fresh salty sea breeze was a panacea for all the effects of the hangover caused by Saturday night excesses.
After the viewing the metamorphosis at sunrise, I used to walk downhill along the steep mountain-path towards the rocky beach for a brief swim.

I used to notice a flurry of activity at a distance, in the compound of a decrepit building, which I used to ignore, but curious, one day I decided to have a closer look.
It was a fish market.

Most of the customers were housewives from the nearby residential complexes who were in their “Sunday-worst” – sans make-up, slovenly dressed, face unwashed and unkempt hair – what a contrast from their carefully decked-up appearances at the club the previous evening.
I began to walk away, quite dejected, when I first saw her.

I stopped in my tracks.

She was a real beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her long lustrous hair dancing on her shoulders.

She had large expressive brown eyes and her sharp features were accentuated by the rays of the morning Sun.

I cannot begin to describe the sensation she evoked in me but it was the first time in my life that I felt my heart ache with intense yearning.

I knew this was love.
But I knew in my heart that I stood no chance – she had a mangalsutraaround her neck.

She was married – maybe happily too.

Nevertheless I went close to her and made her pretense of buying some fish.

Smiling cannily at me she selected a couple of pomfrets and held them out to me.

I managed to briefly touch her soft hands – the feeling was electric and a shiver of thrill passed through me.

She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her teasing dancing eyes and briskly walked away.

I was too delightfully dazed to follow her.

I returned to my room and had fried pomfret for breakfast. Needless to say they were delicious.
I religiously followed this routine every Sunday morning.

She never missed her rendezvous with me – same place, same time, at precisely Seven o’clock in the morning.

But not a word was exchanged between us.

I was too shy and she probably wanted to keep it this way – a beautiful ethereal relationship – a love so delicate that one wrong move might destroy everything.
Meanwhile, I have developed a taste for fried pomfret – quite creditable, considering that I had never eaten fish before.
I left Vizag and traveled around the world, met so many beautiful girls in the numerous exotic places I visited, but I never forgot her.

A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart.
And now I was back in Vizag almost ten years later.

As I walked down the slope towards the beach, in my mind’s eye I could still vividly visualize the playfully sublime look on her face - her gentle smile and communicative eyes – although ten years had passed.

I could not contain the mounting excitement and anticipation in me. I was desperately yearning to see her again. It was a forlorn hope but I was flushed with optimism.
As I reached the beach I noticed that the Sun was well clear of the horizon.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost Seven O’clock.

I hastened my step – almost broke in to a run – and reached the fish market and stood exactly at the same spot where we used to have our rendezvous at sunrise.
With tremors of anticipation, almost trepidation, I looked around with searching eyes.

Nothing had changed. The scene was exactly the same as I had left it ten years ago.

Only one thing was missing - she wasn’t there.

I had drawn a blank.

I was crestfallen.

My mind went blank and I was standing vacuously when suddenly I felt that familiar electrifying touch, the same shiver of thrill.

It shook me to reality, as quick as lighting.

She softly put two promfret fish in my hands.

I was in seventh heaven.
I looked at her.

I was not disappointed.

Her beauty had enhanced with age.

But something had changed.

Yes, it was in her eyes.

Her large brown eyes did not teasingly dance anymore.

There was a trace of sadness, a tender poignancy in her liquid brown eyes as she bid me an unspoken goodbye.

I was so dumbstruck by the suddenness of the event, and the enormity of the moment, that I stood frozen, like a statue, unable to react or to say anything.
It was only as she was leaving that I noticed that there was no mangalsutra around her slender neck. 

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.
Did you like this story? I am sure you will like the stories in my recently published book COCKTAIL comprising twenty seven short stories about relationships. To know more please click the links below:

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 he 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 14 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:
Professional Profile Vikram Karve:
Vikram Karve Facebook Page
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog:


Fiction Short Stories Book

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.