MARRIAGE A LA MODE
My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 75
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Long back,
when I was in Mumbai, I once had a colleague – a modern urban metro man.
He got married
to a “back home type” simple small town girl. It was an arranged marriage.
We all really liked
his wife. She was a plump, graceful girl with a very pretty face and a sincere,
friendly smile which radiated a charming innocence.
But my friend
was not quite happy with the mofussil girl – he wanted a smart chic
professional wife – a wife who would “fit in” to the urban social milieu.
He encouraged
his wife to study, complete her MBA, get a good job and become a career woman.
He subtly
egged her on to become modern and stylish, enthused her to have a makeover,
develop finer tastes, and introduced her high society life.
She responded
to her husband’s wishes with eagerness and enthusiasm and soon she had lost her
refreshing simplicity and delightful innocence.
The
metamorphosis in her personality was truly fascinating.
The way she
had transformed herself from a conservative, small-town girl from the heart of
the mofussil into a chic crème-de-la-crème socialite was remarkable, almost
unbelievable.
She did so
well that soon she had left her husband behind, socially, professionally and
even financially.
She moved in
high circles, and influenced by her newly acquired snobbish colleagues and
high-falutin socialite friends, she started lecturing her husband on “social
graces”.
Her bewildered
husband is puzzled at the transformation in his wife, and full of regret, he
yearns for the simple pristine innocent girl he had once married.
What I have
narrated above is a true story.
Katherine
Mansfield’s story Marriage à la Mode has a similar theme and presents a brilliant vignette of the dynamics
of marital relationships and changing equations in a marriage, as the husband
and wife change and develop their personalities.
The title
Marriage à la Mode means “fashionable marriage” (in French).
If you look
around you will see similar real life stories of the subtleties of marriage
relationships and you will agree with me that though this story was written way
back in 1921 it is relevant even today .
The story is
freely available on the internet and can be read online on the links below and
for your convenience I am pasting it below too.
Marriage a la Mode
By
Katherine Mansfield
On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of
disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poor little
chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always were as they ran to
greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and he had nothing. He
would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that was what he had
done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen last time when they
saw the same old boxes produced again.
And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine
bee-fore!"
And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on mine. I hate
pink."
But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled.
In the old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop
and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russian toys,
French toys, Serbian toys--toys from God knows where. It was over a year since
Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because they were so
"dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad for the babies'
sense of form."
"It's so important," the new Isabel had explained,
"that they should like the right things from the very beginning. It saves
so much time later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant
years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to
be taken to the Royal
Academy
And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy
"Well, I don't know," said William slowly. "When I
was their age I used to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it."
The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart.
"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She laughed in the new
way.
Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily,
fishing in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies
handing the boxes round--they were awfully generous little chaps--while
Isabel's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves...
What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the
station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? Or a
pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends could hardly go
sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. All the same, as he
bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one of Isabel's young poets
lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery door.
With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The
platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. There came
such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed as they scurried
to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker, stowed away his
suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of papers out of his inner pocket,
he flung down in the corner and began to read.
"Our client moreover is positive...We are inclined to
reconsider...in the event of--" Ah, that was better. William pressed back
his flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The
familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. "With regard to our
decision--" He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly.
Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther
corner. A young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down
opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and
saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by the
carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the way she
waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully. Then a greasy,
black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the passing train.
And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back to his papers.
When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for
shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in
the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky shone pale, and one
bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel.
"We have examined our client's correspondence files..."
The last sentence he had read echoed in his mind. "We have examined
..." William hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in
the middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said,
"Isabel." The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he
was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary meetings.
She was at the station, standing just a little apart from everybody else; she
was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at the garden gate; walking
across the parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall.
And her clear, light voice said, "It's William," or
"Hillo, William!" or "So William has come!" He touched her
cool hand, her cool cheek.
The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy,
it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the
rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and cool.
And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the garden now,
no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his breast started
again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes.
"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They
were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before
the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes.
"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her
fine light hair fell over her cheeks.
"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and
he felt a stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him.
"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up
the hair-brush: "Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic.
You're always saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've
got to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen
on--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed back her hair
and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfully
absurd"--she bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this
new house and the servants you grudge me."
"Isabel!"
"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly.
"You think they are another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it,"
she said softly, "every time you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have
gone on living in that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least!
Why, there wasn't enough room for the babies even."
No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it
was to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having
rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were playing shops
with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the hearthrug rowing
away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while Johnny shot at
pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a pick-a-back up the narrow
stairs to their fat old Nanny.
Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house
with blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at
the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London
But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that
he hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what
blindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she really hated
that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny was ruining the
babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new people and new music
and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that studio party at Moira
Morrison's--if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they were leaving, "I'm going
to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like an exquisite little
Titania"--if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to Paris
The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens!
They'd be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his
pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the other two
got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton frocks and little
sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky yellow flower with coarse
leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air ruffling through the window
smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with her this week-end, wondered
William?
And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of
them, with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a
jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose
used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that
immense feather bed with their feet locked together...William couldn't help a
grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the full extent of his
sentimentality.
"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after all,
standing just as he had imagined, apart from the others, and--William's heart
leapt--she was alone.
"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought she looked
so beautiful that he had to say something, "You look very cool."
"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool. Come
along, your horrid old train is late. The taxi's outside." She put her
hand lightly on his arm as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all
come to meet you," she said. "But we've left Bobby Kane at the sweet
shop, to be called for."
"Oh!" said William. It was all he could say for the
moment.
There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis
Green sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the
other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and down.
"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily.
And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only to be had from
the fishmonger's."
And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish in it."
"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And she explained to
William how they had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for
him. "Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea,
beginning with the butter."
"We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter," said
Dennis. "May thy head, William, lack not ointment."
"Look here," said William, "how are we going to
sit? I'd better get up by the driver."
"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said Isabel.
"You're to sit between Moira and me." The taxi started. "What
have you got in those mysterious parcels?"
"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill Hunt, shuddering
beneath his hat.
"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise
William! A melon and a pineapple. How too nice!"
"No, wait a bit," said William, smiling. But he really
was anxious. "I brought them down for the kiddies."
"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand
through his arm. "They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them.
No"--she patted his hand--"you must bring them something next time. I
refuse to part with my pineapple."
"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira. She
flung her arms across William appealingly. "Oh!" The strawberry
bonnet fell forward: she sounded quite faint.
"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple," said Dennis, as the
taxi drew up before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane,
his arms full of little packets.
"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the
colours. There are some round things which really look too divine. And just
look at this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just look at it! It's a
perfect little ballet."
But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh, I forgot.
They're none of them paid for," said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel
gave the shopman a note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo, William! I'm
sitting by the driver." And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves
rolled up to the shoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti!" he cried...
After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and
made his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red
glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. As
William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. He
followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the
wall opposite William some one had painted a young man, over life-size, with
very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very
short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung
strips of black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and
everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends.
William sat down in one of the arm- chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one
hand down the sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow
that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark.
"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and
wiles."
A tragic moan from Moira.
"We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played
'The Maid of the Mountains.'"
"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's not
fair to William. Be nice to him, my children! He's only staying until to-morrow
evening."
"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane. "I'm awfully
good at looking after people."
The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they
had seen him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel,
began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity you didn't come,
William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and
had sloe gin."
The others had reached the house. "I say, Isabel,"
called Bobby, "would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?"
"No," said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress. We're
all starving. William's starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let's begin with
sardines."
"I've found the sardines," said Moira, and she ran into
the hall, holding a box high in the air.
"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said Dennis gravely.
"Well, William, and how's London
"Oh, London
"Good old London
But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began
wondering what colour one's legs really were under water.
"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour."
Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and
changed plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said,
"I do wish, Bill, you'd paint it."
"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with
bread.
"Us," said Isabel, "round the table. It would be so
fascinating in twenty years' time."
Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's wrong," he
said rudely, "far too much yellow"; and went on eating. And that
seemed to charm Isabel, too.
But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but
yawn until it was late enough to go to bed...
It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next
afternoon that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his
suit-case down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She
stooped down and picked up the suit-case. "What a weight!" she said,
and she gave a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate."
"No, why should you?" said William. "Of course,
not. Give it to me."
"Oh, please, do let me," said Isabel. "I want to,
really." They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to
say now.
"There," said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case
down, and she looked anxiously along the sandy road. "I hardly seem to
have seen you this time," she said breathlessly. "It's so short,
isn't it? I feel you've only just come. Next time--" The taxi came into
sight. "I hope they look after you properly in London London
Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty,
blind- looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station.
The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker,
flung back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded
his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to write a
letter to Isabel.
The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long
chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel's
feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.
"Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?" asked
Bobby childishly.
And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long Monday."
But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon
they had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for lunch
and now...
Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. "It's so
wonderful. One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious."
When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on
his tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars.
Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters," he said
complacently, and they all waited. But, heartless postman--O malignant world!
There was only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper.
"And mine's only from William," said Isabel mournfully.
"From William--already?"
"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle
reminder."
"Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only
for servants."
"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,"
said Dennis.
"My darling, precious Isabel." Pages and pages there
were. As Isabel read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled
feeling. What on earth had induced William ...? How extraordinary it was...What
could have made him ...? She felt confused, more and more excited, even
frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, it must
be absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to do?
Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop laughing.
"Do, do tell us," said the others. "You must tell
us."
"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered
the letter, and waved it at them. "Gather round," she said.
"Listen, it's too marvellous. A love-letter!"
"A love-letter! But how divine!" "Darling, precious
Isabel." But she had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her.
"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect."
"It's the most marvellous find."
"Oh, do go on, Isabel!"
"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your
happiness."
"Oh! oh! oh!"
"Sh! sh! sh!"
And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical:
Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed.
"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new
book," said Dennis firmly. "I shall give it a whole chapter."
"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that wonderful bit
about holding you in his arms!"
"I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made
up. But they pale before this."
"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self," said
Bobby Kane.
But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She
was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked exhausted.
"No, not just now. Not just now," she stammered.
And before they could recover she had run into the house, through
the hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the bed.
"How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered Isabel. She pressed
her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she saw them, but
not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their
hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to have
done. How could she have done it! "God forbid, my darling, that I should
be a drag on your happiness." William! Isabel pressed her face into the
pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was,
shallow, tinkling, vain...
Presently from the garden below there came voices.
"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!"
"Come, thou wife of William!"
"Call her once before you go, call once yet!"
Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she
go with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be?
"I must make up my mind." Oh, but how could there be any question? Of
course she would stay here and write.
"Titania!" piped Moira.
"Isa-bel?"
No, it was too difficult. "I'll--I'll go with them, and write
to William later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly
write," thought Isabel hurriedly.
And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs.
Notice how the
husband feels is distressed at the transformation in his wife who seems to have
come under the influence of her new friends and how he feels helpless to do
anything about it overtly, so he expresses his feelings in a letter to her.
When she gets
her husband’s letter, observe how the wife struggles with her conflicting inner
emotions – her feelings for her husband versus her friends – especially in the
end when she reads her husband’s letter and is torn between two choices:
writing a letter to her husband or going out with her friends to the beach.
Her choice
clearly indicates the breakdown of their marriage, especially from the wife’s
point of view.
This story
underlines the universal truth that there can be only two persons in a marriage
– the husband and the wife, and there is no place for a third person in a
marriage – especially friends.
Bye for now,
Dear Reader. I will be back with my another of my favourite stories soon right
here in my blog.
I look
forward to your comments and feedback.
Till then,
Happy Reading
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this review.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
Did you like this story?
I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL.
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this review.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
Did you like this story?
I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL.
Of course, there are no horror stories in Cocktail - in Cocktail there are short stories about love, romance and relationships
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-karve.html
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
If your are a Foodie you will like my book of Food Adventures APPETITE FOR A STROLL. Do order a copy from FLIPKART:
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram lives in PuneIndia
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
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-karve.html
COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll
If your are a Foodie you will like my book of Food Adventures APPETITE FOR A STROLL. Do order a copy from FLIPKART:
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram lives in Pune
Vikram Karve Academic and Creative Writing Journal: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
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