My Valentine

MY VALENTINE
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE


(This happened quite a few years ago. Long back enough for me to tell it to you now! And I will write here exactly as I jotted it down soon after it happened).


Vandana dragged me to the New Year’s Eve party at the Gymkhana Club. “I’d feel good,” she said. I’d been wallowing in my grief too long and it was high time I forgot the tragic events of my past and got on with my life. Besides, she couldn’t go alone. Would I be good enough to escort her?

The moment we entered, Vandana was whisked away to the dance-floor. By one of those young desperate bachelors, who are present in every such party. I didn’t mind it at all. In fact, I felt relieved. For I was in no mood to dance. Though time had passed since fate had cruelly snatched away Rajashree from my life.

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

I saw her almost at once. Her snow-white dress, unusual and eye-catching in the sea of sober blacks and grays. Skin-tight. Hip-hugging. She was only about ten feet away, but had her back to me, and I did no more than register general approval.

Then she turned, and I saw her face. And the impact was so overwhelming that I heard myself gasp!

She turned further, and looked at me. Straight at me. And for just a fraction of a second I thought that it was all a bad dream, for there was my very own Rajashree herself! The same big eyes, set in the same way, in the same rather small face. The same high cheekbones. The same habit of lifting the chin with the head slightly thrown back.

It was only for a fraction of a second, of course. Then I began to see the difference. She was slightly taller than Rajashree. The big eyes had no gray in them. Not even a hint of the greenish gray. They were pure brown. And her complexion. The texture or her hair. Wavy. Almost identical. But just that slight difference.

I was staring brazenly. With undisguised directness. Maybe, even rudely.

At first she realized that I was looking at her. Then, she accepted the fact of being looked at. And finally, she began to look at me in return.

I must have been so engrossed that I hadn’t sensed Vandana come by my side silently observing the goings on with interest.

Embarrassed, I tried to change my focus.

“Dance over?” I asked.

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

“Nothing. Just having a drink.”
“Vivek,” Vandana said.” You’ve got this delightful habit.”
“What habit?”
“Of looking at a woman in an insistent, suggestive sort of way which is worth a hundred compliments.”

“No,” I protested, blushing terribly.
“Come on, Vivek,” Vandana said taking my arm. “I’ve even seen you looking at me. Eyeing me blatantly, almost hungrily. So many times. Giving me those canny looks when you thought I wasn’t noticing.”

I felt ashamed. Of having eyed Vandana. Of having eyed that woman in the snow-white dress. So openly. Staring. As if in a trance. She was still standing there.

“Why don’t you ask her for a dance?” Vandana said.
“Who?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.
“You know who!” Vandana said. “The object of your attention. The woman in white.”

“No,” I said.
“Why not?” Vandana persisted.
“I’m very sentimental, Vandana. I cry easily.” I paused for a moment, and then said, “If she refuses me, I’ll be shattered.”

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

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

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

But I couldn’t forget her. The woman in white. And Rajashree. My late wife. The striking similarity. I cannot begin to describe my emotion as I danced with Vandana, with the woman in white mesmerizing me in my mind’s eye. But as we danced, I must have pulled Vandana close, my mind elsewhere. For when the lights went out to ring in the New Year, I found Vandana tightly embracing me. And kissing me passionately. I kissed her back. For who can resist a full-blooded embrace of a passionate woman in the prime of her life.

On New Year’s day, I got up early in the morning, put on my track suit for my customary jog down to Sims Park. The air was so pure that I smelt a whiff of perfume even at a distance. It was her! The woman of my dreams! The woman in white! Now wearing jeans, jacket and black leather gloves. Walking briskly in the direction of Coonoor. I followed her. All the way down to the railway station. The morning passenger train to Ooty was already standing on the platform. She sat right in front, facing forward in the first car. I sat diagonally opposite, but way behind, in order to get a good view.

She got down at Lovedale, the station just before Ooty. And as she walked across the platform I noticed several things which had not struck me the New Year’s Eve party. The resemblance to Rajashree was still startling. But she was younger than I had thought – may be 25, at the most 27 – whereas Rajashree had been 33. One year ago. When the cruel hand of fate snatched her away. Now this woman who had come into my life so suddenly was also going away.

I felt an instant urge to jump off the train and rush towards her, but I restrained myself. And suddenly the train started moving towards Ooty.

When I returned home to Coonoor in the evening, I found Vandana waiting for me. She seemed livid.

“Happy New Year!” I said.

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

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

“Our mission?” I said incredulously.
“I’ll explain,” Vandana said.
“Have you put me under surveillance?” I asked angrily.
“You better pull up your socks, Vivek Mathur,” Vandana said patronizingly. “You didn’t even notice me sitting right behind you.”

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

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

“She looks like my wife,” I said sheepishly.
“I know. That’s why we’ve chosen you for the assignment,” Vandana said matter-of-factly.

“Assignment?” I asked dumbfounded.

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



My profession is a solitary one, whose sine qua non is the power of anonymity. It was the 6th of January 5.00 pm. And I stood on MG Road in Bangalore watching her entering Gangaram’s – a three storeyed bookshop. One of my favorites.

It was the crucial test of anonymity. If I passed, I got the assignment. Suppose she recognized me, it was curtains as far as this career was concerned. And I would have no choice but to return to my teaching job.

I entered, walked briskly up the steps, and stepped into the bookstore. There she was. Browsing. I went across and picked up a book. She looked up. Our eyes met. I felt a tremor of trepidation. For a moment I was anxious, lest she recognize me. But she nonchalantly put the book she was holding, back on the shelf. And casually walked away. No trace of recognition! I felt relieved. Or did I? Maybe my anxiety had, in reality, been hope. Hope that somehow she would recognize me and my assignment would be revoked by circumstance.

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

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

“Yes, madam,” the sales girl said. “I’ll take you to the manager.”
A windfall. What luck. A custom-made Valentine’s Day Card. I knew I had the case all wrapped up.

The case? The mission. The assignment. Oh yes! Le me tell you all about it. Plainly but precisely. The way a good soldier recalls a battle. Not to win. Not to lose. But the facts. The truth.

It started as a simple inquiry – a pre-matrimonial investigation. That’s what Vandana had told me. Rita Rao. The girl in white. Who looks like Rajashree. She was clean. They gave her a clean chit. So, our client went to her father with a marriage proposal. Rita Rao’s father was delighted. Both were only children – I mean the only child of their respective parents. Scions of flourishing business families. An ideal marriage. Made business-sense too.

But Rita Rao refuses. Says she won’t go in for an arranged marriage with client Jayant. That’s his name. She’ll marry the man she loves.

“Who?” asks her father.

“I don’t know,” she tells her father. There are at least two, maybe three prospective candidates she has in mind. But she can’t decide. Needs time.

“Okay,” says Mr. Rao Decide by Valentine’s Day. Or else I’ll announce your engagement to Mr. Jayant on the 15th of February. Rita Rao agrees. It’s amazing. But true. The ways of the rich.

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

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

So I shave off my beard and begin by trailing Rita Rao.

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

“And then?” I ventured.

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

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

“Don’t delve too deeply,” Vandana’s voice trailed off, as I noticed Rita Rao entering the restaurant. A man got up and walked toward her. The sight of Rita Rao clearly gave him great joy, for he was beaming with pleasure. So was I.

“It’s not him,” Vandana said.
“Why not?”
“Can’t you see? They love each other, but they are not in love with each other.”

“Like us?”

“No, Vivek. There’s slight difference. You love me. But it is me who is truly in love with you.”

I took Vandana’s hand, slipping my five fingers in between hers. “I’ll try,” I said. And try I did, as we cuddled very close that evening watching a romantic movie sitting in the corner seats of the movie theatre.

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

Except one.

On the 31st of January, Rita Rao collected her custom-made valentine card and headed straight back to her bungalow on her Tea Estate near Ooty. And holed up there incommunicado.

Finally, on the 12th of February, Vandana’s ‘Greetings Telegram’ arrived. ( Those days there was no e-mail, no internet e-cards, no cell-phones for SMS – only greeting cards and telegrams). The handwriting on the telegram was barely legible, “Happy Birthday. See you on 14th at the Flower Show. Love. Valentine.”

I smiled to myself. Vandana had signed as ‘Valentine’ – her codeword for this mission. I realized how much Vandana loved me. I’d made her wait long enough. Now I’d seal it. On Valentine’s Day.

The fourteenth of February. The Ooty Flower Show at the Botanical gardens. Celebrating the festival of lovers. The mating season of birds. The magnificent display of roses. Vandana beside me.

I had waited for this moment and now that it had come I did not know what to do with it!

I put my hand inside my overcoat and nervously gripped the diamond necklace wrapped around a bouquet of a dozen red roses. And while taking it out I mumbled, “Vandana, thanks for the birthday greetings telegram.”

“What telegram?” Vandana asked, with genuine surprise in her eyes.
I froze. My mind went blank. I stood flummoxed, holding the necklace in my hand, frozen, not knowing what to do.

Someone was tapping my back. I turned around. And what I saw made me shell-shocked, mesmerized. It was Rita Rao. Holding out a beautifully engraved Valentine Card in her hand.

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

Then, I turned towards Vandana. She quickly plucked out a yellow rose and gave it to me. There were tears in her eyes as she said, “Take my car. The tickets are in the dashboard. Coimbatore to Mumbai and Mumbai to Seychelles!” and she held out the keys.

The Customs Officer at Mumbai Airport opened the passport, saw the photo inside, and then had a good look at Rita. Thumbing through the pages of the passport, he asked, “Rajashree Mathur?”

“Yes,” Rita answered boldly. He stamped our passports, gave them back to us and said, “Have a nice holiday Mr. & Mrs. Mathur. Seychelles is wonderful place.”




MY VALENTINE
(a story of love and romance)
By
VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

A short story by Vikram Karve - The possibilities are endless

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE


The Mysore Race Course is undoubtedly the most picturesque race course in India. The lush green grass track, the verdant expanse right up to the foot of the rugged Chamundi hills which serve as a magnificent backdrop with the mighty temple atop, standing like a sentinel. The luxuriant ambience is so delightful and soothing to the eye that it instantly lifts one’s spirit. And on this bright morning on the first Saturday of October, the atmosphere was so refreshing that I felt as if I were on top of the world!

“I love this place, it’s so beautiful,” I said.

“And lucky too,” Girish added. “I have already made fifty grand. And I’m sure Bingo will win the Derby tomorrow.”

Girish appraisingly looked at the horses being paraded in the paddock, suddenly excused himself and briskly walked towards the Bookies’ betting ring.

I still can’t describe the shock I experienced when I suddenly saw Dilip, bold as brass, standing bang-on in front of me, appearing as if from nowhere. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I think you have dropped this.” In his hand was tote jackpot ticket.

He was looking at me in a funny sort of way, neither avoiding my eyes nor seeking them. I understood at once. I took the tote ticket he proffered, put it in my purse and thanked him. He smiled, turned and briskly walked away towards the first enclosure.

I felt a tremor of trepidation, but as I looked around I realized that no one had noticed in the hustle-bustle of the race-course. As I waited for my husband to emerge from the bookies’ betting ring, in my mind’s eye I marveled at the finesse with which Dilip had cleverly stage-managed the encounter to make it look completely accidental.

It was only in the solitude of my hotel room, after lunch, that I took out the jackpot ticket and examined it. I smiled to myself. The simplest substitution cipher. A last minute resort for immediate emergency communication. That meant Dilip wasn’t shadowing me; he hadn’t even expected me at the Mysore race-course. But having suddenly seen me, wanted to make contact. So he had contrived the encounter, and left further initiative to me. The ball was now squarely in my court.

I scribbled the five numbers of the jackpot combination on a piece of paper. For racing buff it was an unlikely jackpot combination which did not win and the ticket was worthless. But for me it was contained some information since I knew how to decipher it. To the five numbers I added the two numbers of my birth-date. I now had seven numbers and from each I subtracted Dilip’s single digit birth-date and in front of me I had a seven digit combination. I picked up the telephone and dialed (Mysore still had seven digit telephone numbers). It was a travel agency – a nice cover. I didn’t identify myself but only said, “Railway Enquiry?”

“Oh, Yes, madam,” a male voice answered. I recognized it at once. It was Dilip, probably anxiously waiting for my call. “You are booked on our evening sightseeing tour. Seat no. 13. The coach will be at your hotel at 3 in the afternoon. And don’t carry your mobile with you. We don’t want to be tracked.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 2:30. Time for a quick wash. I tore up tote ticket and scribble paper and flushed it down the toilet. It was too dangerous to keep them around once their utility was over. And should ticket fall into the wrong hands, one couldn’t underestimate anybody. For human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.

The tourist bus arrived precisely at 3 o’clock and soon I was in seat No. 13, a window seat. I had hardly sat down when Dilip occupied the adjacent seat No. 14. He was carrying the ubiquitous tourist bag, but I knew what was inside - the tools of his tradecraft.

“Thanks for coming, Vibha,” he said.
“I was scared you’d do something stupid, indiscreet.” I scolded him.
“You haven’t told your husband about your past?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell him now. There’s no place for secrets between husband and wife”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s too late now.” I was getting a bit impatient now. “Listen, Dilip. This is dangerous. What do you want? My husband…….”

“He’s gone to Ooty. It’s a four hours’ drive. Should be half-way by now,” Dilip interjected looking at his watch.

“He is coming back tomorrow.”
“I know. In time for the Mysore Derby. Your horse Bingo is running, isn’t it?”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s common knowledge. Besides I make a living prying into other people’s lives.” Dilip paused for a moment. “Don’t worry, Vibha. The races start only at two tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got plenty of time together. He won’t know. I promise you.”

The bus stopped. We had arrived at the Mysore Palace.
“Come, Vibha. Let me take your photo,” Dilip said, talking out his camera.

“No,” I snapped.
“Okay. You take mine. I’ll stand there. Make sure you get the Palace in the frame.” He gave me the camera and said, “Have a look. It’s a special camera. I’ll focus the zoom lens if you want.”

I pointed the camera in the direction of the palace and looked through the viewfinder. But the palace wasn’t in the frame. The camera had a ninety degree prismatic zoom lens. I could see the tourists from our bus crowding around the shoe-stand about fifty meters to my left, depositing their shoes.

“Who?” I asked.
“Lady in the sky-blue sari, long hair. Man in the yellow T-shirt and jeans, still wearing his Ray Ban aviator.”

I happily clicked away, a number of photos, the target couple not once realizing that it was they who were in my frame.

“I don’t think they are having an affair,” I said, once we were inside the cool confines of the Mysore Palace, admiring the wall paintings of the Dasera procession. “The boy looks so young and handsome. And she’s middle-aged and her looks- so pedestrian. A most improbable combination.”

“That’s why the affair is flourishing for so long!”

I gave Dilip a quizzical look.
“Three years,” Dilip said. “It’s going on for over three years. The woman is a widow. She gets a maintenance from her in-laws’ property. They want to stop it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.
“The right of a widow to maintenance is conditional upon her leading a life of chastity.”

“What nonsense!”
“That’s what the lawyer told me. The one who commissioned this investigation,” Dilip said. “They’ll probably use this evidence to coerce her into signing-off everything. Maybe even her children.”

“What if she doesn’t agree ?”
“Then we’ll intensify the surveillance. A ‘no holds barred’ investigation. Two-way mirrors with installed video cameras, bugs with recording equipment,” Dilip paused, and said, “In fact, in this case I’m so desperate for success that I’m even considering computer morphing if nothing else works.”

I was shocked. “Isn’t it morally disgusting? To do all these things. Extortion. Blackmail. To what length does one go?”

“Once you have the right information, the possibilities are endless,” Dilip said softly, “It’s not my concern to worry about moral and ethical issues. I never ask the question ‘why’. I just state my fee. And even if I do know why, I’ve made it a policy never to show that I understand what other people are up to.”

“What are you up to? With me?” I asked.
Dilip did not answer. He just smiled and led me towards our bus. I was glad I had not married Dilip. I had never known he could sink to such depths. I hated him for the way he was using me. Taking advantage of my fear, my helplessness. The bastard.

Nalini, my elder sister, had been right about Dilip. But for her timely intervention, I would have married Dilip. Even eloped with him. I shudder to think what life would have been like had I married Dilip.

“It’s beautiful,” Dilip said, looking at the famous painting - ‘Lady with the Lamp’ - at the Mysore Museum.

“Yes,” I answered, jolted out of my thoughts.
“Remember, Vibha. The last time we were here. It’s been almost ten years.”

I did not answer, but I clearly remembered. It was our college tour. And Dilip had quickly pulled me into a dark corner and kissed me on the lips. A stolen kiss. My first kiss. How could I ever forget?

“Vibha. Tell me honestly. Why did you ditch me so suddenly, so mercilessly?”

“Nalini told me not to marry you,” I said involuntarily, instantly regretting my words.
“And then she forced you to marry Girish, your brother-in-law.”
“Girish is not my brother-in-law. He is my co-brother.”
“Co-brother indeed! He is the younger brother of your elder sister Nalini’s husband. So he is your brother in law also isn’t it?” Dilip said sarcastically.

“So what?” I snapped angrily. “It’s not illegal. Two brothers marrying two sisters. And it’s none of your business.”

“Business!” Dilip said. “That’s it. Two sisters marry two brothers. So it’s all in the family. The business. The money. The tea estates and coffee plantations. The industries. The property. Everything.”

“So that’s what you had your eyes on, didn’t you? My father’s property!” I knew it was a cruel thing to say and I could see that Dilip was genuinely hurt. Instinctively I realized that Dilip was still in love with me. Maybe he was jealous of my successful marriage, my happiness and probably my wealth, my status in society and that’s what had made him bitter. But seeing the expression on his face I knew that Dilip would not harm me, for he was indeed truly in love with me. “I’m sorry, Dilip. Forget the past and let’s get on with our surveillance,” I said looking at the ‘target’ couple.

And so we reached the magnificent Brindavan gardens, posing as tourists in the growing crowd of humanity, stalking the couple, taking their photographs as they romantically watched the water, gushing through the sluice gates of Krishnarajasagar dam, forming a rainbow admits the spraying surf.

After sunset we enjoyed the performance at the musical fountain sitting right behind the ‘couple’. Suddenly, the lights went out, everyone stood up and started moving. Trying to adjust our eyes to the enveloping darkness, we desperately tried not to lose track of target couple as they made their way, in the confusion, towards “Lovers’ Park.”

It was pitch dark. But through the lens of the night vision device I could clearly discern two silhouettes, an eerie blue-green against the infrared background. The images were blurred and tended to merge as the two figures embraced each other, but that did not matter since I knew that the infrared camera would process the signal through an image intensifier before recording, rendering crystal-clear photo quality pictures.

“Let’s go,” Dilip whispered, and we stealthily negotiated our way out, but in hindsight, there was really no need to be clandestine about it since we were just another couple ostensibly having a good time in the dense foliage of “Lover’s Park” as it was known.

Pondering over the day’s events I realized how right Dilip had been. Surveillance involves hours of shadowing and stalking training and tracking your target, sitting for hours in all sports of places like hotels, restaurants, parks, cars etc, hanging around airports, railway stations, bus stands or even on the streets, waiting and watching. A man and a woman would appear for less conspicuous than a single man or a pair of men. And if they look like a married couple it’s even better for the cover.

I wondered why I’d agreed to do all this. Maybe because I felt a sense of guilt, a sort of an obligation that I owed Dilip. Any girl always has a feeling of dept towards a decent man who she has ditched. Or maybe because I wanted to find out what life would have been like had I married Dilip. Or maybe because I was scared that Dilip would blackmail me. Dilip was the only secret I had kept from my husband – a skeleton I wanted to keep firmly locked away in the cupboard. I guess it was a combination of all the above reasons,

The tourist bus reached my hotel at precisely 9.30 p.m. Before getting down from the bus, Dilip handed over the bag containing the infrared device, special cameras and all paraphernalia to a man sitting right behind us.

“Who was that man?” I asked after the bus drove away with the man in it.

“Never mind,” Dilip said leading me into the foyer of the hotel.
“No,” I insisted. “I want to know.”
“It is sometimes important for an operative conducting surveillance to put himself under observation.”

At first the sentence sounded innocuous, but gradually comprehension began to dawn on me, and as I realized the import of those words I experienced a chill of panic. All sorts of thoughts entered my brain. Photographs of Dilip and me. The man may even have bugged our conversation. The possibilities were endless. I looked at Dilip. Didn’t he have any scruples? My impulse was to run to my room and lock myself up. But when Dilip invited me to have dinner with him in the restaurant I knew I dared not refuse. I had no choice. Dilip now had me at his mercy. He had his manacles on me. The only way to escape Dilip’s clutches was to tell Girish everything. But could I? Especially after today! I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the consequences.

After dinner I invited Dilip to my room for a cup of coffee. I knew it was suicidal but I had decided to give Dilip what he wanted and get rid of him, out of my life, forever.

The moment we entered the room, the phone rang. It was for Dilip- a man’s voice - probably the same man sitting behind us in the bus.

Dilip took the receiver from my hands and spoke, “I told you not to ring up here……… What?........But how is that possible ?......... Oh, my God! I am coming at once.”

“What happened?” I asked him.
“We got the wrong couple on the infrared camera in Lovers’ Park. Couldn’t you see properly?”

“No, I said. “Just blurred images.”
Instinctively I rushed with Dilip to his office-cum-laboratory. He told me not to come, but I did not listen, a strange inner force propelling me.

I looked at the blurred images on the PC monitor. Then as Dilip kept zooming, enhancing the magnification and focus, the images started becoming clear, and as I watched something started happening inside me and I could sense my heartbeats rise.

It was Nalini and Girish. Or Girish and Nalini. Whichever way you like it. It doesn’t matter. Or does it? Nalini, my elder sister - the very person instrumental in arranging my marriage to Girish. And Girish - my beloved ‘faithful’ husband. Their expressions so confident, so happy, so carefree. So sure they would never be found out. So convenient. How long was this going on? Living a lie. Deep down I felt terribly betrayed. I felt as if I had been pole-axed, a sharp sensation drilling into my vitals, my stomach curdling as I threw up my dinner.

It was extraordinary how clear my mind became all of a sudden. “Listen, Dilip,” I said emphatically, “I want a full-scale comprehensive surveillance. Two-way mirrors, bugs, video, audio - the works. A no-holds barred investigation. And dig up the past. I want everything.”

“No, Vibha !” Dilip said. “I can’t do it.”
“You can’t do it or you won’t do it?” I asserted. “Listen, Dilip. You have to do it. I want you to do it.”

“Why, Vibha. Why?”
I smiled and said, “Dilip, remember what you said in the afternoon; your motto : You never ask the question ‘why’. You just state your fee.” I paused. “So Dilip. Just state your fee!”

“But, Vibha. What would you do with all this information?” Dilip protested.

“The possibilities are endless,” I said, almost licking my lips in anticipation as I could feel the venom rising within me. “Yes indeed! The possibilities are endless!”


THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS
(A fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

The Miscalculation ( a fiction short story) by Vikram Karve

THE MISCALCULATION
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE



If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover. That’s why I didn’t tell Raj. Or involve him in any way. Not even in a hint. I made my plans alone and with perfect care. An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur. And then my phone would ring. To convey the “bad” news. And I would be a widow. Free. Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.

And after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose - an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”. First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept - just for my children’s safe. And there would be nods of approval all around.

The phone rang. I panicked. There is no fear like the fear of being found out. I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am. Had something gone wrong? I felt a tremor of trepidation. The phone just wouldn’t stop ringing. I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath. The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.
“I’m not well,” I lied.
“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.
“No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone. I smiled to myself. That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy. I would have to be careful indeed. And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more. Raj accepts me as I am - nice and plump. Not like Manish - always finding fault with me. I know I can always depend on Raj. He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Soon it would be garlanded. My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted. I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man. Also, I prefer to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple. I had programmed a Robot to do the job. The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory. At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check. And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements. It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different. Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night. This is what was going to happen. At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain. It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous. Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave.

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident. Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow. Pitied by all. And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore. And after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and everything would happy ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock. Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. May be I should give Manish a last chance. All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home. Feign a sudden illness or something. But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj. The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was. At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested. Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect? I do not know. Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore? I don’t think so. We had our affair absolutely clandestine.

11.45 am. An hour to go. I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension - a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear. So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin. As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down. Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself. Once I married Raj I would never drink ; there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening. He was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk. He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile. How I hated the mere sight of him. The very though of my husband made me gulp down my drink. I poured myself one more. And then one more. And one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call. The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. - it was from Singapore. Raj? I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” It was Raj.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Speak to her,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

Strange. I knew nothing about her! So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We got married yesterday and are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj’s gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone. I felt as if I had been pole-axed. I looked at the wall-clock. 12.55. Too Late! My blood froze.

The telephone rang. I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the government hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Government hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically. “Is he dead?”

“No. He’ll survive.”


Manish did survive. I wish he hadn’t. For his sake. And for mine. For till this day he is still in coma. And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ all my life.

It was a small miscalculation. 600 Amperes wasn’t enough. But then the Robot is a machine. The real miscalculation was about Raj!





VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

Haiku : Minerva Moment by Vikram Karve

Haiku

MINERVA MOMENT
by
VIKRAM KARVE

(My “Minerva Moment” when I quit smoking)


smoke rings
chains of bondage
like handcuffs

fresh breeze
smoke rings dissolve
I am free


VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

My Monkey Trap by Vikram Karve

MY MONKEY TRAP
By
VIKRAM KARVE



“Come, Vijay,” Captain Naik said, leading me into his study, “I’ll show you something interesting.” He opened a cupboard, pulled out a strange-looking contraption and laid it on the table. I looked at it, confused but curious. The peculiar apparatus consisted of a hollowed-out coconut attached to a solid iron chain, about two feet long, with a large metal stake at the other end.

“You know what this is?” he asked.

“No,” I answered

“I got this in Penang when I was cadet, almost thirty years ago,” Captain Naik said, picking up the coconut in his left hand, holding the chain in his right.

He looked at me and explained, “This is a monkey trap. The hollowed-out coconut is filled with some cooked rice through this small hole, chained to the stake which is driven firmly into the ground. Look at this hole. It’s just big enough so that the monkey’s hand to go in, but too small for his fist filled with rice to come out. The monkey reaches in, grabs the rice and is suddenly trapped. Because his greed won’t allow him to let go of the rice and extricate his hand, the monkey remains trapped, a victim of his greed, until he is captured. The monkey cannot see that freedom without the rice is more valuable than capture with it. That’s what happens to most of us. Probably it’s the story of your life too. Think about it.”

I thought about it and said, “Suppose I quit the merchant navy. What will I do?”

“Why don’t you join me?” Captain Naik suggested, “It’s a comfortable job. Professionally satisfying. And plenty of time for your family too. Besides, I need people like you. Of course, you won’t get your tax-free couple of thousand dollars, but the pay is good by Indian standards.”

Captain Naik was the director of a maritime training institute in Goa, running various courses for merchant navy officers. It was a lovely self-contained campus on the shores of the Arabian Sea. At first I wondered whether he had a vested interest, but I knew that was not true. Captain Naik had been my mentor and well-wisher; it was he who had groomed me when I had been a cadet on his ship many years ago. And later too, when I was a junior officer. That’s why I had made it a point to visit him the moment my ship touched Murmagao port.

For the next six months, as I sailed on the high seas, I could not forget the ‘monkey trap’ – in fact, it haunted me. And soon I knew what my decision would be. But first, I would have to discuss it with my wife. Truly speaking, that was not really necessary. She would be the happiest person on earth. For I could clearly recall every word of the vicious argument we had just before I left home about seven months ago.

It was our tenth wedding anniversary and we had thrown a small party. As I walked towards the kitchen door, I noticed my wife, Anjali, engrossed in a conversation with her childhood friend Meena, their backs toward me.

“Tell me, Anjali,” Meena was saying, “If you could live your life again, what would you like to change?”

“My marriage!” Anjali answered. I was stunned and stopped in my tracks, dumbstruck, at the kitchen door.

After the party was over, I confronted Anjali, “What were you doing in the kitchen all the time with that Meena friend of yours? You should have circulated amongst the important guests,”

“I feel out of place in your crowd,” Anjali answered.

“My crowd!” I thundered. “And you regret marrying me, do you?” I paused for a moment, and then said firmly, “Listen Anjali, you better stop associating with riffraff like Meena. Think of our status.”

“Riffraff!” Anjali was staring at me incredulously. “I was also what you call ‘riffraff’ once. And quite happy too! What’s the use of all these material comforts? And wealth and so-called status? None of it can compensate for the companionship and security of a husband. This loneliness, it’s corrosive; eating into me. Sometimes I feel you just wanted a caretaker to look after your parents, your house, and of course, now your children. To hold the fort while you gallivant around for months at a time. And that’s why you married a simple middle-class girl like me; or rather you bought me! That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

I winced when she said, ‘bought’. But in a certain way, I knew it was true. Which is why I lost my temper and shouted, “I don’t gallivant around - It’s hard earned money I have to slog and undergo hardship for! I do it for all of you. And yes indeed! I bought you. Yes I ‘bought’ you! That’s because you were willing to sell yourself. Remember one thing. No one can buy anything unless someone is willing to sell it.”

I instantly regretted my words realizing that they would only worsen the gaps in our relationship. Gaps I had failed to fill all these ten years by expensive gifts and material comforts. That’s what I was always doing. Always trying to use money to fill gaps in our relationship.

And now, almost six months later, I was flying home after handing over command – for the last time. My last ship. I had made my decision. It was probably the meeting with Captain Naik and the ‘monkey trap’ which clinched the issue, but my decision was final. I had even written to him and would be joining him at his maritime training institute in a month. But I did not write or tell Anjali. For her I wanted it to be a surprise – the happiest moment of her life! And mine too.

I didn’t hire a luxury air-conditioned taxi from Mumbai airport direct to my house in Pune like I always did. I knew I would have to get used to being less lavish in the future. So I took a bus to Dadar and caught the Deccan Express at seven in the morning. I was traveling light – no expensive gifts this time, and it being off-season, I was lucky to get a seat in an unreserved second-class compartment.

When I reached home at about lunch time, I was shocked to find Anjali missing. My old parents were having lunch by themselves; my children were at school.

When Anjali arrived at two in the afternoon, I was stunned by the metamorphosis in her appearance. Designer dress, fashionable jewellery, permed hair, fancy make-up - painted like a doll; in short, the works.

“What a surprise!” she exclaimed on seeing me.” You should have rung up.”

“Anjali, I want to talk to you. It’s something important,” I said.

“Not now,” she said, almost ignoring me. “I am already late. I just came for a quick change of clothes. Something suitable for the races….”

“Races?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Don’t you know? Today is the Pune Derby. Mrs Shah is coming to pick me up. You know her? The one whose husband is working in the Gulf. And you better buy me a new car.”

“New car?” I asked dumbfounded.

“The old one looks cheap. I hate to be seen in it. Doesn’t befit our status. We must have something good – the latest luxury limousine. I know we can afford it.”

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion. Punctuated by one surprise after another from Anjali. She wanted a deluxe flat in one of those exclusive townships. To send our children to an elite boarding school in Mussoorie of all places, membership to time-share holiday resorts, a farmhouse near Lonavala, and on and on – her demands were endless. And in between she would ask me, “Vijay, I hope you are happy that I am trying to change myself. It’s all for your sake. You were right. It is money and status that matter. Without a standard of living, there can be no quality of life!”

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. That she was once a simple domesticated middle-class girl whose concept of utopia was a happy family life was now but a distant memory to her. To ‘belong’ was now the driving force of her life.

I wish I could give this story a happy ending. But I’ll tell you what actually happened.

First, I rang up my shipping agent in Mumbai and told him to get me the most lucrative contract to go to sea as soon as possible. Then I wrote a long letter to Captain Naik regretting my inability to join him immediately. But I also wrote asking him to keep the offer open. Just in case there was a reverse transformation in Anjali – back to her earlier self.

I am an optimist and I think it will happen someday. And I hope the day comes fast; when both of us, Anjali and I, can free ourselves from the Monkey Traps of our own making.

Dear Reader. Close your eyes and ponder a bit. Have you entangled yourself in a monkey trap of your own making? Think about it! Reflect! And in your mind’s eye visualize all your own very ‘Monkey Traps’ which you have created for yourself.

What are you waiting for? The solution is in your hands. Just let go, and free yourself.

And do let me know what you feel – Which is more important: Freedom or golden manacles; standard of living or quality of life? And do help me free myself from my ‘Monkey Trap’.


VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

Karve

Karve

Lavang Lata

LAVANG LATA AT BABUMOSAI

By

VIKRAM KARVE


I love Heritage Cuisine!

“Heritage Cuisine” – sounds good isn’t it?

You may presume that this pompous term refers to pretentious traditional high-brow cuisine which adorns the tables of the classes!

In my vocabulary “heritage cuisine” is high-falutin gobbledygook for simple staple down-to-earth local street-food relished by the masses. Like Vada Pav (Mumbai’s “Heritage Burger”), or Puneri Misal, or Kulcha Chole, Katchi Dabeli, Bhel, Kathi Kababs, Baida Roti, Malpua, Jhunka Bhakar, Momos, Jalebis – the list is endless.

There is a delicious sweetmeat called “Lavang Lata” which I tasted for the first time and relished piping hot at Pehelwan’s at the end of Lanka near BHU in Varanasi in the seventies. A cool Lassi ( in winter) or warm milk (in summer), both with dollops of rabdi added, topped up the gastronomic experience.

Later, in the eighties, I came across slightly different versions of Lavang Lata at various eateries, most notably at Nathu Sweets at Bengali Market in New Delhi. But these versions were nowhere close to Pehelwan’s truly invigorating and substantial ‘Banarasi’ Lavang Lata which left one truly satiated and in a state of delight.

Just imagine my surprise, when, during my walk one evening, I chanced upon a delectable Lavang Lata in an out-of-the-way unpretentious sweet shop called ‘Babumosai Bengali Sweets’ tucked away almost in obscurity, way off the beaten track, on Aundh Road, on the way to Khadki in Pune.

Actually I was in search of Rasgullas. (Roshogollas, if you want it spelt that way). Having relocated from a ‘happening’ place like Churchgate in the heart of Mumbai to an obscure “back of the beyond” desolate place somewhere in the jungles of Pune on the banks of Mula river between Aundh and Sangvi, craving and wandering desperately in my search for ‘heritage food’, I hit the Aundh road past Spicer College towards Khadki, enjoying a refreshing walk between the expanse of the verdant Botanical Gardens and the foliage of Pune University, when in the first building I encountered on my left, I saw a nondescript signboard “Babumosai Bengali Sweets” (maybe the spelling ought to be ‘Babumoshai’) atop a deserted lackluster sweetshop.

There was no one in the shop and the lifeless atmosphere and uninspiring display almost put me off. But having come so far, I decided to give it a try and looked at the sweets on display in trays behind a glass counter - Rasgullas, Sandesh, Rajbhog, Gulab Jamuns, Malai Sandwiches - the ubiquitous ‘Bengali Sweets’; and suddenly a man came out carrying a tray of piping hot Lavang Latas, the very sight of which made my mouth water so much that I ordered one immediately.

I walked outside the shop, stood in the cool evening air, took a small bite of the Lavang Lata, rolled the syrupy hot piece on my eager salivated tongue and closed my eyes in order to enhance my gustatory experience.

I pressed the Lavang Lata upwards with my tongue against the palate, the roof of my mouth, and slowly it disintegrated releasing its heavenly flavour of nutmeg and cardamom. That’s the way you should enjoy Bengali sweetmeats – never bite, swallow and devour in a hurry. Don’t use your teeth; slowly, very slowly, just roll on your tongue and lightly press on the roof of your mouth till the delicacy melts and dissolves releasing its luxurious flavour and divine fragrance into your gustatory and olfactory systems. And remember, keep your eyes closed, shut yourself to the outside world, focus on your tongue, internalize the experience and transcend to a state of delightful ecstasy, till you feel you are in seventh heaven. That’s the art of eating.

The Lavang Lata is perfect. Not sickly sweet, but tantalizingly tasty, with the subtle essence of its ingredients and seasoning coming through. The rabri and khoya, the raisins and dry fruits, the crispy sweet crust, the spices and most importantly, the exotic fortifying and stimulating taste of clove. It’s sheer bliss. The refreshing taste lingers on my tongue for a long time, as if for eternity.

Just writing this is making my mouth water. And I am rushing to “Babumosai” once more – this time to sample the Rasgullas, maybe the Sandesh – and I’ll tell you all about it right here. And on the way I may just be tempted to bite into a ‘Lamington’ at Spicer’s. And of course I’ll tell you all about it and all my “foodie” experiences and the art of eating.

Dear fellow Foodie - do let me know if you enjoyed reading this.


VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

An Affair to Remember

AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER
by
VIKRAM KARVE


I look in front of me. I like what I see. I keep seeing, my eyes locked on to the target, as if by some mysterious, yet astonishing, force of attraction. Something is happening with me. Senses heighten; stimulated, aroused in a way I have never felt before. Waves of desire rise within me. I feel tremors of anticipation. My mouth salivates and I lick my lips lasciviously in eager expectation. I feast my eyes hungrily. My heart beats. I feel possessed. Intense passion, Lusty craving overwhelms me. I can’t control myself any longer. Wild with desire, I move towards my target, ready for the kill.

No. No. Dear Reader. Just wait a moment. The object of my desire - it’s not what you are thinking. What I am looking at, the object of my attention, the focus of my temptation, is a bowl Nihari – two succulent generous pieces of mutton floating in a rich nourishing gravy looking so luxuriant and tempting, that I just can’t wait to devour the dish. But I control myself. Good food must be savored delicately; slowly, attentively and respectfully; in a befitting manner, with finesse and technique, with relish and appreciation and you will experience true gustatory delight. That’s the Art of Eating. It’s sacrilege to eat in a ravenous and rapacious manner.

The bowl of Nihari, so luxuriously appetizing; a Khameeri Roti, so soft and fluffy. It looks sumptuous. I move closer. The tempting aroma - so enticing, so blissful - permeates within me, energizes my brain cells, activates my taste buds. My mouth waters. I am ready to eat.

Eating is not a gustatory experience alone, it’s visual and olfactory as well. Food must look good, smell good, taste good and, most importantly, make you feel good. The Art of Eating. It’s Holistic. Multidimensional. Encompassing all domains of your inner being.

If you want to do full justice to good food, you must build up an appetite for it – merely being hungry is not enough. And the first step towards building up an appetite for good food is to think about it – simulated imaginative gustatory visualization to stimulate and prepare yourself for the sumptuous indulgence. An important thing we were taught at boarding school was to read the menu and prepare for the meal by beginning to imagine eating each and every course, from soup to pudding, in our mind’s eye. Remember: First plan your “eat” and then eat your “plan”.

It’s true. I eat my food twice. First in my mind’s eye – imagining, visualizing, “vicariously tasting”, fantasizing, strategizing on how I am going to savor and relish the dish to my utmost pleasure and satisfaction till my mouth waters and I desperately yearn to eat it. And then I do the honours – actually go ahead and eat it and enjoy the delightful experience.

Using my right thumb and forefinger, I lovingly pick small piece of meat from the gravy and delicately place it on my tongue. I close my eyes. Look inside. To focus my conscious energy. To accentuate my awareness. To concentrate. That’s the cardinal principle of the Art of Eating. You must always close your eyes during the process of eating. When you eat, you must eat; nothing else, no seeing, no hearing, no talking. No multitasking. Focus, eat mindfully, meditatively, honour your taste buds and you will attain a state of delightful bliss and happiness.

The meat is so tender that even a toothless person can eat it. It’s truly “Melt in the mouth” cuisine – like the famous Galouti Kebabs of Lucknow. Soft, succulent, juicy.

You don’t chew. You just gently squeeze the meat, softly rolling your tongue against the palate until the meat dissolves releasing its fascinating flavours. It’s sheer bliss. Enlightenment. Gustatory Orgasm. Sensory Resonance. I do not have words to describe the exhilarating sensation.

That’s the hallmark of a genuine nourishing and invigorating Nihari, the best part of the thigh muscle, specially selected prime marrow bones with generous portions of succulent meat, tenderized and marinated with curds, seasoned lovingly in the choicest of spices and dum-cooked to seal in the juices and flavours, slowly and gently, in a gravy carefully thickened with an assortment of flours of wheat, maize and dals as per the season and taste and garnished with thin strips of ginger and fine slices of fresh green chillies and a sprinkling of coriander.

I turn my attention to the Kameeri Roti. Holding the roti with my left hand I pull out a piece with my right. The texture is perfect – soft and fluffy. I sample a piece – yummy – it tastes good by itself; and why shouldn’t it? Whole-wheat atta kneaded with plenty of curds, seasoned with a bit of sugar and salt, fermented overnight in a moist cloth, flattened and cooked in a tandoor. Nourishing, luxuriant, ideal with the Nihari.

I dip a piece of roti in the thick gravy allowing it to soak in and place it on my tongue. Exquisite. A gentle bite. Tangy ginger strips and sharp chilli. A confluence of contrasting tastes. I absorb the riot of zesty flavours. It’s exciting, invigorating, perks me up and I am ready for what I am going to do next.

And what am I going to do next? You knew it, didn’t you? I call for a marrow spoon, dig it into the marrow bone, scoop out some marrow and lick it on my tongue. I close my eyes and I can feel the nourishment coming all the way through. It’s a wonderful feeling.

I eat in silence. Mindfully. Savour the aroma, delicately place the food on my tongue, chew slowly and experience the variety of flavours as the permeate my taste buds, fully aware and sense the nourishment as the food dissolves and sinks deep within me.

The succulent meat. The sumptuous gravy. The luxuriant fluffy Kameeri Roti. It’s a feast worthy of the Gods. An ambrosial repast!


I am in a supreme state of bliss. Is this enlightenment? Or gustatory delight. Maybe it’s meditative eating. Or let’s narrow it down to the art of eating a Nihari.

It’s simple. Create a positive eating atmosphere, honour your taste buds, respect your food and eat it in a proper state of mind, with love, zest, awareness and genuine appreciation and it will transport you to a state of bliss and happiness. In a nutshell, this is ‘The Art of Eating’.


Epilogue


I used to visit two eateries on 1st Marine Street Dhobi Talao near Metro Cinema in Mumbai – Sassanian when in the mood for Parsi food or maybe a Roast Chicken, or to pick up delicious cakes, biscuits and freshly baked delights from their Boulangerie next-door and Punjabi Fish Mart for earthy deep fried fish best enjoyed piping hot by well fortified cast-iron stomachs on cold damp monsoon evenings.

Sometime back, maybe in mid 2005, returning one evening from one of my food-walks, I noticed, in between these two of my favourite eateries, a newly opened restaurant - Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar – with a takeaway section, from where I picked up a menu card and walked home.

Later that night I read the menu card and was delighted to find on it my favourite non-vegetarian delicacy – Nihari. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I partook of the dish.

And soon I had my tryst with Nihari and experienced this delightful gustatory affair to remember.


VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

An Unforgettable Lunch in Mumbai by Vikram Karve

A HEARTY LUNCH AT SHALIMAR IN BHENDI BAZAR
by
VIKRAM KARVE


Right now I’m experiencing a severe case of “Writer’s Block” so I’m going to write about Food. It’s almost lunch time, so I close my eyes and try to recollect the most memorable lunch I’ve had in recent times.

Is it the Chicken Stew with Appams at Fountain Plaza in Fort, or the Fish Curry ( Gassi) and Rice at Bharat Lunch Home, or is it the Berry Pulao at Brittania in Ballard Estate, or the Biryani at Olympia, or the pure Veg Maharashtrian Thali at Shreyas in Pune?

I’m confused; so I exercise my memory cells a bit more. And suddenly I remember. Oh yes, no doubt about it; it’s the farewell lunch my colleagues gave me, a day before I left Mumbai, at Shalimar Restaurant situated at Bhendi Bazar in Mumbai.

We reach at one in the afternoon. At first impression I like the place – an abundance of connoisseurs thoroughly enjoying their food as is evident from their body language, high turnover, no nonsense, no frills, businesslike atmosphere – appetite builds up in me and I know we have come to the right place. The place is crowded, there’s no place on the ground floor, so we go to the air-conditioned dining hall upstairs.

I don’t even look at the proffered menu card. I am going to surrender myself to my hosts - they will order and I will just eat.

First they order a hot “Chinese” soup which is nice and spicy, with lots of vegetables, sea food and chicken in it, and at the end of it I am voraciously hungry.

Then is brought in front of me for my perusal, piping hot and simmering, the signature dish of the place – Tandoori Raan Masala. I nod my approval, and it’s taken away for chopping up and slicing, and a generous portion served to me along with a Tandoori Roti. I put a small piece of the meat in my mouth; it’s very very tasty. Spicy and zesty, it’s quite different from the Raan I’ve eaten at Karim’s in Delhi. Then I bash on regardless with the Tandoori roti and pieces of the delectable raan. In between , I scoop and devour the marrow which tastes delicious.

Then I find in front of me a dish of Shalimar Chicken Chilli – a specialty of the place. It’s mouthwatering! For the first time in my life I eat a so-called Chinese dish – Chilli Chicken – with Tandoori Roti, and let me tell you it tastes fantastic.

Now my insides are on a delicious spicy fire, my tongue bracing with spicy tang and my nose is watering, so is put in front of my a glass of ice cold Shahi Gulab Falooda to quench my fires. In a word, it’s heavenly; a perfect conclusion to a most enjoyable lunch and its exquisite flavour and divine fragrance remain with me for a long time.

Indeed a ‘medley’ meal – a “Chinese” soup, Mughlai Mutton Raan, Chilli Chiken ( ostensibly Chinese but whose genre I can’t fathom or classify!), Tandoori Roti and the blissful Falooda. A culinary symbiosis of gourmet food I’ll never forget.

Just writing this has made me hungry – really famished and ravenous. So I’m heading for lunch. Where? I’ll tell you later. Right here, in this blog.


VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com