Monday, June 27, 2011

KILLING IS NOT EASY

KILLING IS NOT EASY
Short Fiction
by
VIKRAM KARVE

From My Creative Writing Archives: 
One of my earliest short stories - a horror thriller. I am sure you will like it. 

          
           I waited in anticipation overcome by tremors of trepidation, secretly hoping that he would not come.

           But he did come. Right on the dot. Sharp ten o’clock at night. Exactly as planned.

            
          He said nothing when he entered. The moment I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn’t seem to notice. He turned around, as if he had forgotten something, took two quick steps and bolted the door. 

          Hoping to conceal my emotion, I began to speak in order to gain my composure: “Please be seated, sir,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”

           “Whisky and soda,” he said, loosening the knot of his tie, as he moved towards the sofa. He sat down and gave me an appraising look.

           I took my time getting up from my chair, taking care to make my movements deliberately slow, in order to hide my fear and nervousness. I walked towards the fridge, my back turned in his direction, but still I could feel his eyes piercing me. 

           Soda, glass, opener, ice-bucket and a bowl of peanuts ready on a tray, I opened the liquor-cabinet. At first my hands instinctively touched a bottle of cheap whisky, but then I hesitatingly picked out a bottle of the best premium whisky. After all this was a first-class client. And maybe his last drink. Let him enjoy it.

           I carefully set the loaded tray on the table in front of him and sat down on the chair across. I poured him a stiff drink and opened the bottle of soda.

           “Put lots of ice,” he said, in a commanding voice. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “What about you?”

           “No,” I said handing him the glass, “I don’t drink on duty.” 

          “Duty?” he laughed looking me in the eye. He took a sip of the whisky and closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue, as if waiting for the whisky to caress his brain. His was not an unpleasant face. In fact he looked quite handsome. 

           “Without any effort I could go straight to sleep,” he said with his eyes still closed. Then suddenly he opened his eyes, looked directly at me, and with a mischievous smile he said, “But there’s plenty to do tonight, isn’t it?”

           “Yes indeed!” I said to myself. “There was plenty to do tonight.” In my mind’s eye, I tried to visualize how I was going to do it.

           The man shifted on his seat, took out a wallet from his hip pocket and stylishly extracted ten crisp red thousand-rupee notes and put them on the table in front of me. 

           I did not pick up the money. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s on the house.”

          “Who said so?” he snapped an angrily.

          “The person who sent me here,” I answered.

          “What else did he say?”

          “That you are a very special guest.”

          “And?” he asked.

           “That I should be very discreet. Shouldn’t even breathe a word to anyone.” I paused, and then said, “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

           He smiled and said, “Take the money. I always pay for everything. I am a man of principles.” 

           Suddenly I could feel the venom rising inside me. A man of principles my foot!

          Hypocrite. That’s what he was. A Bloody Hypocrite.

          Where were his principles when he had killed my husband and concocted lies that it was a gruesome accident. And then quickly disposed off my husband’s body at sea – into the Davy Jones’s Locker.

        Murderer. That’s what he was. An unscrupulous mendacious murderer.

        And tonight he was going to pay for it.

        Everything was in my favour.

        I had recognized him. I knew who he was but he did not know who I really was. For him I was just a nameless face. A one-night stand. To be used, discarded and forgotten. And though he could not possibly realize it, it was he who had reduced me to this. And now he had unknowingly walked right into my hands.

          “Is it enough?” he asked, pointing to the money on the table. 

          “My normal rate is fifty thousand,” I said. I wanted to embarrass him for I had glimpsed into his wallet when he took out the money. I picked up the ten thousand rupees from the table, tucked them in my blouse, and said, “But for you, it’s okay.”

           He smiled, looking intently into my eyes for a few seconds. Then he gulped down his drink, got up form the sofa, came around the table and stood behind me. I sat still, waiting for his next move. He put his hands on my shoulders and said matter-of-factly, “Let’s go to bed.”

           When I woke up, for a moment I could not imagine where I was. The silence was so intense that I could hear my heart beating. The room was not quite dark, for the door of the bathroom was partly open, and the light in it had been left on.

            As I turned and I saw him lying beside me, I felt a sudden flush of passion. It was after a long time that I had really enjoyed it. But I quickly controlled my feelings and carefully observed the sleeping man.

            He breathed steadily, like a man immersed in deep sleep, fully satiated. But I had to be sure.

          “Hello,” I whispered near his ear.

           No answer. He was dead to the world.

           Very slowly, very silently, I slipped out of my bed. I slowly bent down near the bedside table, unplugged the two-pin electric plug from the socket on the wall and carefully coiled the wires around the base of the table-lamp.

          I picked up the table-lamp in both hands holding the plug carefully, and stood for a while, looking at the man to see whether I had disturbed him.

         His breathing was as regular as before. I took a couple of tip-toe steps and halted, took a few steps more and waited, and so on, until I reached the bathroom door. Then I quickly went inside and locked the door.

           I yanked out the wires form the table-lamp, and with my teeth, removed the plastic cladding from the open ends exposing at least two inches of naked copper on both the wires.

           I smiled to myself. In my hands was a weapon of death. A set of coiled wires, one red and one black, long enough, a two-pin plug at one end and the other end exposed, naked.

           I retraced my steps, tiptoed, leaving the bathroom light on and the door a bit ajar, so that I could just about see slightly. I put the plug in the socket. Then I uncoiled the wires, carefully holding one wire in each hand, a few inches away from the naked exposed copper, my hands apart.

           I switched on the electric switch with my left toe, got on the bed and slowly advanced on my knees towards the sleeping figure. The man was lying on his back, sleeping soundly, dead to the world.

          I decided to aim for his eyes. Simply thrust one live wire into each eye. Hopefully death would be instantaneous, the electric current flowing though his brain; even if it wasn’t, at least he’d be unconscious and then I could take my time.

           The live wires had almost touched his eyes when some invisible force seemed to have grabbed my wrists.

            I froze. And felt a turbulence of conscience.

            “I don’t want to be a murderess. What do I gain? And then what’s the difference between him and me? What about his family? Why should I make them suffer for no fault of theirs? And maybe what he said was indeed true; that it was just an accident, like he had reported,” said one part of me, pulling my hands back. 

           “Revenge! Vengeance! He deserves it,” desperately urged the other part of me, pushing my hands forward. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Do it now. Fast!” And slowly my hands started moving forward.

           Suddenly the man started turning and, panicking, in a reflex action I instantly pulled my hands back. In the confusion, the naked wires touched; there were sparks and then total darkness.

           Short Circuit - the fuse had blown.

           My blood ran cold. There was no movement from the man. Instinctively I guessed that the man had turned over on his side, his back towards me.

           I tiptoed to the bathroom, retrieved the table-lamp, kept it on the bedside table and tucked the wires underneath. Then I lay down on my bed as if nothing had happened. The centralized air-conditioning was still on; but the bathroom light had gone off. Probably only the local light fuse had blown, but I didn’t know where it was.

           I had muffed up a golden chance. The man was lucky to be alive. Sheer luck! But I knew I would try again. Again and again. For he did not deserve to live. And with these thoughts I drifted off to sleep. 

           When I woke up in the morning, I saw that the man was still fast asleep. The dawn had broken. I opened the window and let the sunlight in. 

           “Who’s that?” he asked, startled, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight.

           “You must go to your room now,” I said. “Someone may notice.” I walked towards the sofa, picked up his clothes and threw them to him.

           He dressed hurriedly and quickly walked to the connecting door between our rooms. He opened the door, paused for a moment, and turning towards me he said, “Good Bye, Mrs. Morris. They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing is not easy. Yes, killing is not easy. You can take my word for it.”

              With these words he left my room, silently closing the door.

              I sat in dumbstruck silence, a deathly grotesque deafening silence.

              I never saw him again. I never want to. For I have never felt so scared as I felt at that moment - and when I think of it, a tremor goes up my spine and a shiver perambulates throughout my whole body and I resonate with fear.
 

VIKRAM KARVE
 
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

If you liked this story, I am sure you will like the 27 stories about relationships in my latest book COCKTAIL  
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 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: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com          

Fiction Short Stories Book

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
                                                                        

Friday, June 24, 2011

I WANT TO GO HOME

I WANT TO GO HOME 
Short Fiction - A Story 
By 
VIKRAM KARVE 
 
From my Creative Writing Archives: A story I wrote a few years ago
 
“I want to go home!” the father, a redoubtable intrepid tough looking old man, around seventy, shouts emphatically at his son, "I have had a terrible time out here for the last one month that you dumped us here."  
 
“Please Baba. Don’t create a scene,” the son, an effeminate looking man in his mid-forties, says softly.  
 
“What do you mean don’t create a scene?” the old man shouts even louder, waving his walking stick in a menacing manner.
  
“Please calm down! Everyone is looking at us!” an old woman, in her mid-sixties, pleads with her husband.  
 
“Let them look! Let everyone see what an ungrateful son is doing to his poor old parents,” the old man says loudly, looking all around. 
 
“Ungrateful?” the son winces.  
 
“Yes, ungrateful! That’s what you are. We did everything for you; educated you, brought you up. And now you throw us out of our house into this bloody choultry.”  
 
“Choultry! You call this a choultry! Please Baba. This is a luxury township for Senior Citizens,” the son says.  
 
“It’s okay,” the old woman consoles her husband, “we will somehow manage in this Old Age Home.” 
 
“Mama, please!” the son implores in exasperation, “How many times have I told you. This is not an Old Age Home. It’s such a beautiful exclusive township for Senior Citizens to enjoy a happy and active life. And I’ve bought you a premium cottage – the best available here.”  
 
The mother looks at her son, and then at her husband, trapped between the two, not knowing what to say as both are right in their own way. So she says gently to her husband, “Try to understand. We’ll adjust here. See how scenic and green this place is. See there – what a lovely garden.”  
 
“I prefer Nana-Nani Park at Chowpatty. All my friends are there,” the old man says.  
 
“You’ll make friends here too,” she says.  
 
“Friends! These half-dead highbrow snobs?” the old man says mockingly.  
 
“Okay,” the son intervenes, “you both can take long walks. The air is so pure and refreshing at this hill station.”  
 
“Listen you impertinent kid!," the old man shouts at his son, "Don’t try all this on me. I’ve been walking for the last fifty years on Marine Drive and that is where I intend walking the rest of my life till my dying day.” 

Then the old man turns to his wife and says peremptorily to her, “You pack our bags and let’s go back to Mumbai. We are not staying here in this godforsaken place!”  
 
“Try and adjust,” his wife beseeches him, “you’ll like the place. Look at the facilities here – there’s a modern health club, gym, library, recreation: everything is here.”  
 
“Gym? You want me to do body building at this age? Library? You know that after my cataract I can hardly read the newspaper! And I can get all the recreation I need watching the sea at the Chowpatty and walking with my lifelong friends on Marine Drive.”  
 
“Please Baba, don’t be obstinate,” begs his son. “This place is so good for your health. They give you such delicious nourishing food here.” 
 
“Delicious? Nourishing? The bloody sterile stuff tastes like hospital food. I can’t stand it – where will I get Sardar’s Pav Bhaji, Kyani’s Kheema Pav, Vinay’s Misal, Satam’s Vada Pav, Delhi Durbar’s Biryani, Sarvi’s Boti Kababs, Noor Mohammadi's Nihari, Fish in Anantashram in Khotachi Wadi next door…”  
 
“Please Baba! All you can think of is horrible oily spicy street-food which you should not eat at your age! With your cholesterol and sugar levels, you’ll die if you continue eating that stuff.”  
 
“I’d rather die of a heart attack in Mumbai enjoying the good food I like rather than suffer a slow death here trying to eat this insipid tasteless nonsense,” the old man shouts at his son, then looks at his wife and commands, “Listen. Just pack up. We are not staying here like glorified slaves in this golden cage. One month here in this godforsaken place has made me almost mad. We are going right back to our house in Girgaum to live with dignity!”  
 
“Please Baba. Don’t be difficult. I have to leave for America tonight,” the son pleads desperately. “I’m trying to do the best possible for you. You know the huge amount of money I have paid in advance to book this luxurious place for you?” 
 
“You go back to your family in America. I am going back to my house in Girgaum. That’s final!” the old man affirms to his son. 

Then the old man looks at his wife and says, “You want to come along? Or should I go back to Mumbai alone?”  
 
“Mama, please tell him,” the son says looking at his mother.  
 
The old woman looks lovingly at her husband, puts her hand on his arm and says softly, “Please try to understand. We have no choice. We have to live here. There is no house in Girgaum. Our tenement chawl has been sold to a builder. They are building a commercial complex there.”  
 
“What?” the old man looks at his wife as if he is pole-axed, “you too!”

And suddenly the old man's defences crumble and he disintegrates; no longer is he the strong indefatigable redoubtable tough man he was a few moments ago - he seems to have lost his spirit, his strength, his dignity, his self-esteem, even his will to live!

There is a drastic and unbelievable metamorphosis in the old man's personality as he meekly holds his wife’s hand for support, and, totally defeated, his heart and soul totally broken, the old man obediently walks with his wife towards their cottage where they both, along with many other Senior Citizens, will spend the last days of their lives, lonely, unwanted, waiting for death.  


VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

If you liked this story, I am sure you will like the 27 stories about relationships in my latest book COCKTAIL  
To know more please click the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme

About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures(2008) and is currently working on his novel. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 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: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com          

Fiction Short Stories Book

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
                                                                        

DO DAUGHTERS DESERVE PROPERTY RIGHTS

DO DAUGHTERS DESERVE PROPERTY RIGHTS
Rights without Responsibility

In earlier times, the son was considered the heir to all property and wealth of the parents. Also, it was the son who had the responsibility to look after his parents in their old age. Thus, the rights came with a concomitant responsibility.

Nowadays, daughters have an equal share in the property of their parents. However, it seems that daughters do not want to shoulder the responsibility to look after their parents. In prevalent society it still remains the son’s duty to look after his parents. Thus, while a son gets rights with responsibility, a daughter enjoys rights without responsibility. This is unfair. If a daughter want a share in ancestral or parental property she must be prepared to share the responsibility of looking after her parents too.

The fact of the matter is that whereas most daughters are quite vociferous in demanding their equal share in property they are not similarly forthcoming when it comes to looking after their parents. This onerous task they expect their brother and his family to do. Of course, the worst off is the poor daughter-in-law, who gets no rights but bears the brunt of the responsibility.

You don’t agree? Well, here is a recent example.

An 80 year old widowed woman had a serious accident involving multiple fractures and injuries. The old woman was in a critical condition when her son rushed her to hospital. The son’s wife (daughter-in-law) rushed to the hospital from work. The old woman has undergone multiple surgeries and is still in hospital and it is her daughter-in-law who is constantly at the bedside of her mother-in-law caring for her and nursing her with dedication and selfless devotion. More than 15 days have passed and the son’s and daughter-in-law’s life had turned topsy-turvy. They have taken off from work and have to be in constant attendance nursing the serious patient.

The old woman’s daughter was on a holiday abroad when the mishap with her mother took place. She was informed of the seriousness of the accident. She did not cut short her visit and return immediately. In fact, she was thinking of extending her stay when someone put some sense into her head and she returned to India as scheduled a week after the accident, by which time two major surgeries were over, and the stress, tension and brunt of the situation was already borne by the daughter-in-law and son.

When the daughter landed up in hospital to see her mother, the son expected that his sister would now share the hospital duties with his exhausted wife who had spent seven sleepless nights tending to her mother-in-law. The son asked his sister to stay for a few days so that his wife and he could recoup their energies, but he was stunned when his sister announced that she would be only staying for a day, and the next day, along with her husband, she went back to her home (which is just a three hours drive away). It is now evident that the daughter wants to shirk her responsibility and faced with a fait accompli the hapless daughter-in-law (and son) will have to single-handedly perform the difficult and strenuous task of tending to the old woman 24/7 for a long time till she recovers.

The mother insists on talking to her daughter on mobile phone every day, and the daughter keeps expressing fake emotions of how concerned she is and shedding crocodile tears, but it is the son and his wife who are actually doing the onerous physically demanding and emotionally draining task of nursing the incapacitated woman. You will not believe it, but the old woman tells visitors how upset and “concerned” her darling daughter is while ignoring the sterling performance of her daughter-in-law and son, especially the dedication of her daughter-in-law, which she takes for granted.

Of course, when the old woman recovers, the daughter will be back on a visit with lip-sympathy and “overflowing” love, and the son and daughter-in-law will be relegated to second place, as the daughter is the favourite of the old woman.

Tell me, does this daughter deserve a share in her mother’s property? 

Monday, June 20, 2011

DAUGHTER AND DAUGHTER IN LAW

DAUGHTER AND DAUGHTER IN LAW
Fiction Short Story
By  
VIKRAM KARVE
 
 
From my Creative Writing Archives: 
A simple fiction short story of changing relationships ... 
 
 
The doorbell rings. 
 
The woman called Manjula opens the door.
 
“We’ve come to fit the air-conditioner,” the man outside says.
 
“What...? We haven’t ordered any AC...” the woman says and begins to close the door.
 
“Wait...” her husband’s voice says from behind the man.

Manula is surprised that her husband has come home early from work. 
 
Her husband guides the man inside while his wife Manjula looks on in bewilderment.
 
“AC...? You gone crazy...? You just go and order an AC without even telling me...?”  Manjula asks her husband.
 
“Mother told me to get it. Smita and her family are coming,” the husband explains.
 
“Oh...! So all this is for your darling sister and foreign husband, is it...? When we ask for a cooler you crib, and for them it’s an AC...!” Manjula says sarcastically.
 
“He’s not a foreigner. He’s of Indian origin settled there.”
 
“So why does he need an AC...?”
 
“Mother said they wouldn’t be able to stand the heat here, especially the kids.”
 
“Listen, Houston is much hotter and humid than here.”
 
“Maybe. But they are used to air conditioning. Please don’t argue with me – as it is the heat is driving me crazy...!”
 
The bell rings again.
 
“It must be the commode,” her husband says and goes to open the door.
 
“Commode...?”
 
“Yes. Western Style.”
 
“This is too much... I’ve seen that Smita shitting in the open, in the fields near our village, when she was a kid.  And now that she’s married an NRI and wants to defecate western style...? Bloody snobs, I don’t know why they come here once in a few years and try to show off. And you, the perfect dutiful Mamma’s boy – no guts of your own...!”
 
“What’s the matter...? Is everything ready...?” she hears her mother-in-law’s stern voice from behind, so Manjula lowers her face and slips away into the kitchen.
 
“I heard what your wife was saying... her name is Manjula (sweet voiced) but she speaks so uncouthly,” her mother-in-law says viciously in a loud voice to Manjula's husband making sure her taunt is heard by Manjula in the kitchen.
 
“Oh yeah...Your darling daughter's name is Smita (cheerful) but have you ever seen her smiling or laughing – she just carps and cribs all the time,” Manjula mutters to herself.
 
The NRI guests arrive from Houston , and the next few days are hell for Manjula, physically and mentally.

Manjula dies a thousand deaths in her heart seeing the favoritism of her mother-in-law towards Smita and her family and is unable to bear the patronizing attitude of her guests and the subservient groveling of her own husband before his mother and his fawning submissive behaviour towards his sister and her husband.

And all the time Smita makes sarcastic barbs at Manjula and her incompetence, offering lip sympathy to her "beloved" mother and shedding crocodile tears at old woman’s ‘agony’.

And Manjula’s dear husband remains silent, a mute spectator...!

Why can’t he stand up for her...?
 
One evening, they’ve invited a large number of guests to dinner, and while Smita is reveling in the paeans of praise being showered by her mother and her cronies, Manjula slogs it out in the kitchen.
 
“See Smita’s house in Houston ,” the old woman boasts, showing everyone a photo album (which all NRI’s invariably bring with them to impress us ‘natives’...!). 
 
"See..." Manjula's mother-in-law goes boasts with pride, “just look at my daughter's house in America...it’s got a swimming pool... and her children... they are so accomplished... and her husband… my son-in-law... he is doing so well...” she goes on and on and on praising her daughter Smita till Manjula can’t take it any more and suddenly Manjula interrupts rudely, “Mummyji, if you like Smita's house so much, why don’t you go to Houston and stay there with your darling daughter...?”
 
“What...?” her mother-in-law asks disbelievingly.
 
“I mean, Smita is your own darling daughter after all, and I am sure she will look after you much better than I do, isn’t it...? After all, they are so well-off, and caring and loving. I’m sure it’s better for you to go there and live in luxury like a Maharani rather than suffering it out here with us...!” Manjula says instinctively, but seeing the fiery look in her mother-in-law’s eyes, she starts to tremble.
 
Time freezes. 
 
Manjula feels tremors of trepidation wondering what is going to happen next. 
 
She knows she has gone too far this time.
 
There is silence. 
 
A grotesque silence...! 
 
And suddenly Manjula hears her husband’s voice, “I think Manjula is right...!”
 
“What are you saying...?” Smita asks astonished, looking in disbelief at her brother.
 
“I am saying that Manjula is right. It would be much better if mother stayed with you in Houston for some time. You’ve also got to take some responsibility and look after her, isn’t it...?” Manjula's husband Suresh says firmly to his sister Smita, glances at his mother, and then he turns towards his wife Manjula and looks at her in a way she has never seen him look at her before.

Then Suresh lovingly takes his wife Manjula's hand in his and says, "Let's go out somewhere. Just you and me. Shopping... a Movie... Dinner... anywhere you want. And let's leave them alone to wallow in their lip sympathy and crocodile tears...!"



VIKRAM KARVE       
 
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
If you liked this story, I am sure you will like the 27 stories about relationships in my latest book COCKTAIL  
To know more please click the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme

About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures(2008) and is currently working on his novel. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 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: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com          

Fiction Short Stories Book

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.