WHY DID HE DUMP ME ?

WHY DID HE DUMP ME ?

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

One of my earliest stories - updated and abridged 

The moment I saw the email I did two things.

First I took a print-out of the email.

Then, I kept the printout in my purse.

After that I deleted the email from my mailbox.

Then I called my travel agent and booked my ticket on the next flight to India.

The email contained a name and an address.

That’s all – just a name and an address.

I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name.

I had so many questions to ask him… unanswered questions that were haunting me for so many years.

It all started when my fiancé Anil suddenly broke off our engagement without any explanation.

“Why...?” I asked him totally shocked.

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.

“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you,” he said trying to look away from my eyes.

“What do you mean you can’t marry me...?” I shouted at him, holding his shoulders and shaking him.

He did not say anything. 

He just remained silent and averted his eyes.

“Is it someone else...? Tell me, is there someone else...? What do you mean you can’t marry me...? Actually you don’t want to marry me, isn’t it...?”

“Okay, you can think what you like. I don’t want to marry you... ”

“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept being jilted like this. How can you suddenly dump me just like this?”

“You have to accept it. Don’t delve too much.”

“How dare you say ‘don’t delve too much’ - how dare you? You are a filthy unscrupulous cheat...” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar. 

“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “So you are calling me a cheat, are you...? That’s really funny, when actually it is you who tried to cheat me. You are the one who is a cheat.”

“I…? I cheated you…? You are accusing me of cheating on you…?” I said dumbfounded and furious.

“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me,” he said as if he were accusing me.

“Hide what...?” I asked, getting livid.

“You never told me that you are an adopted child,” he said.

I was stunned.

“Adopted? I am an adopted child? What are you saying?”

“Yes. You are an adopted child. And you hid that fact from me,” he said firmly.

Shocked, I shouted at him loudly in anger, “What nonsense...! Don’t talk rubbish. I am not adopted…!”

“You are. Maybe you don't know. Maybe they did not tell you. But you are not their real daughter, you are an adopted daughter.”

“Who told you...?”

“We got some pre-matrimonial enquiries done.” 

“Matrimonial Enquiry…? You spied on me…?” I accused him, “you cheapie... you want to blackmail me… to humiliate me… with all these sick lies…?”

“Don’t worry. No one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.” 

“It’s not true. It is not true. I am not adopted,” I said feeling shattered numb, feeling paralysed, cold, as if I had been pole-axed.

“Why don’t you ask your parents…?” Anil said, and walked away.

He dumped me and walked away from my life forever, leaving me heartbroken, desolate and shattered.

I never asked my parents... the only parents I knew... I never asked them ...

They were the one’s who loved me, gave me everything.

I could not ask them because I knew that it would terribly hurt them.

I did not have the heart to hurt my gentle parents who loved me so much and had given me everything.

They did not say anything to me when my engagement was called off.

But I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away, having lost the will to live.

I felt deeply anguished and helpless.

My parents loved me.

Maybe they were my foster parents but they were the only parents I knew and they meant everything to me.

We carried on our lives as if nothing had happened.

I lovingly cared and looked after them till their very end.

But deep down I felt terribly betrayed.

Years passed.

Time and life moved on.

I relocated abroad.

I immersed myself in my work.

They say time is the best healer.

But time did not heal this wound.

I tried to forget but I could never forget.

One day I could bear it no longer. 

I decided to find out.

And now I had found out.

The investigation agency had done a good job – very confidential and discreet.

For the first time I knew the name of my actual father – my real father, my biological natural father.

And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it, commit that cruel unforgivable act of abandoning me to the world.

I landed at Delhi airport in the very early hours of the morning.

It was cold, the morning chill at once refreshing and invigorating.

The driver drove fast.

It took me six hours by taxi to reach the magnificent bungalow near Landour in Mussoorie.

I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside, eager to see my real father for the first time.

There was a small crowd gathered in the porch.

“What’s happening…?” I asked a man in the crowd.

“Bada Saheb is no more. He passed away this morning. He was so good to us,” he said with tears in his eyes.

I pushed my way through the crowd.

My father’s lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites.

I looked at his serene face.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried inconsolably, “I have become an orphan. My father is dead... I have become an orphan…”

“Me too…” a familiar voice said softly behind me.

I turned around.

It was Anil - my ex fiancé. 

I stared into the eyes of my ex fiancé Anil.

Anil looked into my eyes with tenderness.

Slowly comprehension began to dawn on me.

I looked at Anil. 

Anil looked at me. A warm brotherly look.

I cannot describe the emotion I felt at that moment.


We, Anil and I, kept looking into each other’s eyes in silence.

It was a grotesque silence; deafening silence; illuminating silence; empathizing silence; compassionate silence – an enlightening silence. 

Silence. Sapience. Silent sapience. 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013

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.

NB:

All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013. All Rights Reserved

Did you like this story?

I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
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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 and blogger. Educated at IIT Delhi, IIT (BHU) 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 an anthology of short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and 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  and academic research papers in journals and edited in-house journals and magazines for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing and blogging. Vikram Karve 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: vikramwamankarve@gmail.com

Twitter: @vikramkarve

      

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

BLOG FICTION Story No. 24 - CHILLED BEER

Blog Fiction Story No. 24

CHILLED BEER

Short Fiction - A Romantic Murder Mystery 

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

 

Short Fiction - A Murder Mystery

I wrote this story long ago. 

This story also features in my anthology COCKTAIL

Do let me know whether you liked the story.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning and I sit languidly in my balcony.

I feel good as I reminisce about the good old days of my wonderful past.

Then I am overcome by melancholy and sadness as I mourn about the gloomy and depressing present.

I am filled with anxiety as I speculate with foreboding about what the ominous future may hold in store for me. 

The doorbell rings.

I curse at being disturbed from my reverie, and wonder who has come to meet me on a Sunday morning.

I open the door.

I am dumbstruck.

It is my wife Anjali's friend and colleague, that gorgeous snooty pompous beauty called Monica, who lives across the street.  

“Anjali is not at home,” I say tersely.  

“I know,” she says, “I have come to see you.”  

“Me...?” I stare at her baffled, for till now the pretentious haughty Monica, who does not care for losers, has always ignored me as if I did not exist.  

“Yes, Ajay, I know Anjali is not at home. I have come to see you. I want to talk to you alone.”  

“Alone...?” I am curious as I can feel a shiver of anticipation rising within me. We, Monica and I, have never been alone before.  

“Yes. Alone. Won’t you ask me to come in...?”

“Of course. Please come in. Shall we sit in the balcony...?”  

“No. We’ll sit inside here, so no one will see us and we can talk in private.”  

Monica looks chic and ravishing, in tight jeans and a close fitting pink T-shirt.

I try not to stare at her.  

The moment we sit down on the living room sofa, she says, “Suppose you found out that your wife was being unfaithful. Tell me, Ajay, what would you do...?”  

Taken aback by the bombshell, I say, “What...?”  

“Suppose you caught her having an affair.”  

“What nonsense...!” I say angrily, but inside me there germinates a small seed of doubt. Does Monica know something...? Why is she saying all this...? Trying to hide my fears, I put up a solid face and say, “Come on Mrs. Kumar. It’s impossible. You know Anjali for so many years and how much she loves me.”  

“Hey, stop calling me Mrs. Kumar. I’ve told you before, haven’t I...? You just call me Monica...” Monica says, looks provocatively into my eyes, and asks, “Now think carefully...Suppose, just suppose, you caught your wife Anjali having an affair, cheating on you, betraying your trust with infidelity…”

“I’ll kill her,” I say instinctively.  

“How...?”  

“How...? What do you mean ‘How’...?”  

“I mean ‘How’. How will you kill your wife...?”  

“Well, I don’t know,” I say getting up from the sofa, not wanting to continue this conversation.  

“Let’s hypothesize. Will you shoot her...? Strangle her...? Stab her to death...? Suffocate her with a pillow...? Push her over the balcony or shove her off a cliff...?  Electrocute her...? Drown her...? Douse her with kerosene and set her on fire...? An ‘accidental’ gas cylinder explosion...?”  

“What do you want from me...? Why are you harassing me...? Please go away Mrs. Kumar. Anjali will be here any moment,” I beseech her. 

“No, she won’t. I know she’s gone to the health club and parlour for her Sunday session. She’ll be back after twelve. We have enough time together, haven’t we...?” Monica says mischievously looking up at me and adds, “Okay, you just tell me how you would kill your wife if you caught her having an affair, and I promise I’ll go away...!”

“I’d probably use poison,” I say, and start walking towards the entrance door.  

Monica remains seated in silence for some time, and then she looks at me intently and says, her words clear and deliberate, “Poison... The way you finished off Nisha, your first wife...?”

I stop dead in my tracks.

Stunned, pole-axed, I can sense a sharp, cold fear drilling into my vitals.

I look at Monica, into her shining eyes.

She knows...

And she wants me to know, that she knows...

And now I know that I have no choice.

I walk back to my sofa, sit down and say to her, “So you want to kill your husband. Just because you think he is having an affair.”  

“You killed Nisha, didn’t you...?” she asks, looking directly into my eyes.  

I feel very frightened, scared.

How much does Monica know...?

Or is she just speculating, guessing...?

Maybe she's just trying a shot in the dark...

But seeing the venom in her eyes, I realize that I dare not take any chances, so I smile and say, “Well, Monica, you have got your manacles on me, haven’t you...?”

“Listen, Ajay,” Monica says, her voice soft, as she speaks in measured tones, “I don’t want a scandal, that’s why I haven’t given him even the slightest hint that I suspect. But I can’t live a lie any longer pretending I am happy. The flimsy façade of our successful marriage, the veneer of pretence – it’s all going to blow-up sooner or later as he is becoming more and more indiscreet and careless.”

She pauses for a moment and says, “He’s got to go. Quickly. Quietly. As ‘normal’ a death as you can arrange.”

“Why don’t you leave him...? Ask him for a divorce.”

“It’s much better to be a widow than a divorcee, isn’t it...?”

I think about what she says.

Monica is right. It is much better to have all the sympathy of a widow than the stigma of being a divorcee; inherit all her husband’s riches, money, property rather than the paltry alimony.

Her husband is rich and successful, and her marriage a social triumph.

“Tell me, who is he having an affair with...?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.

“It’s none of your business,” she says angrily. “Just do what I tell you and don’t delve too deeply.”

“I thought maybe…”

“What’s the use...? He’ll get another one – bloody philanderer,” Monica says with contempt. “It’s he who has betrayed me and I want to get rid of him fast. You do this for me, Ajay, and my lips remain sealed about Nisha forever. I promise...”

“That’s all...?”

“I’ll clear all your gambling debts, your loans, the mortgages – with the bookies, financers…”

Inside I tremble with indescribable terror... outside I try to be calm and say, “You know all about me, don’t you...?”

“I’ve done my homework. Now you execute a foolproof plan. And after it’s all over there’ll be plenty more to come for you. I’ll give you so much money, you can’t even imagine...”

“Okay, let’s brainstorm. You tell me everything about your husband. Each and every detail, his food habits, his routine, his programme for the next few days, about both of you, everything. Absolutely everything.” 

“I’m thirsty,” Monica announces. 

“Fresh Lime...?”  

“How about a chilled beer?”  

I get two cans of chilled beer from the fridge.  

“Hey,” Monica exclaims holding up a beer can, “you know what...? Kumar drinks the same brand of beer as you do...! It’s his favourite beer.”

“That’s a good start,” I say and clink my beer can with hers, “Cheers... To our success... Now tell me everything.”  

Monica tells me everything about her husband Kumar.

I listen intently and carefully make notes.

By the time Monica finishes, in my mind’s eye I am already evaluating the pros and cons of various options of how Kumar is going to die.

“How do you want him to die...? Instantaneous death or prolonged illness...?” I ask Monica.

“I want to finish it off as quickly as possible. Painless. Fast. When he is far away from here. Like maybe during his trekking trip to Mussoorie next week,” she pauses for a moment and says, “but make sure it’s a perfect foolproof job – not even an iota of doubt or needle of suspicion.”

My mind races, exploring and weighing all the options, like maybe an exotoxin which leaves no trace, excretes itself from the organism within a few hours...?

I keep on thinking, my brain cells working at lightning speed, and all of a sudden I know what I’m going to do... 

“We’ll give him something in his favourite beer,” I say.  

“What...? Tell me, please...” Monica says excitedly.  

“Now you don’t delve too much...” I say haughtily. “Just do what I say. Lips sealed. And ask no questions...”  

“Okay.”

I look at the notes I have made when she was telling me about her husband and ask, “His weight is only 70...?”  

“That’s right. Seventy kilograms. Five feet ten. Thirty Eight years of age. Ideal, isn’t it... He’s a fitness freak.”

“And he leaves for Mussoorie on Thursday...”  

“Yes. Early in the morning.”  

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll have the beer can ready by Wednesday evening. Make sure you collect it by six before Anjali comes back from office and see that he drinks it…”  

“No. No. You serve it to him. Let him have it here. In front of you. Right here.”  

“He’s never come here to our place before...”  

“He will come here. If you invite him.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Anjali to invite both of you to dinner on Wednesday evening. She’s been wanting to call you over for a long time.”

“And...?”  

“I’ll make sure your Kumar drinks the special beer. He’ll be off to Mussoorie on Thursday, and you should have the ‘good news’ by Sunday morning.”  

“He shouldn’t suddenly pop off right here in Pune...”  

“He won’t. I’ll calculate everything precisely – you make sure there is at least a 36 hour incubation and proliferation period.”    

After Monica leaves, I realize three things.

Firstly, murder is a rather lucrative business.

Secondly, from an amateur, I am going to become a professional.

And thirdly, infidelity is not only reason why Monica wants to get rid of her husband.

Everything works as per my plan.

I meticulously keep the vacuum microencapsulated ‘special’ can of beer firmly in its designated place in the fridge on Wednesday morning the moment Anjali leaves for work.

Then I leave for my office.

When I open the fridge the moment I return early from work on Wednesday evening I notice that the particular beer-can is missing.

My heart skips a beat, I feel a tremor of trepidation, search desperately in the fridge, don’t find the can, and soon I’m in a state of total panic.

After a frantic search I find the empty beer can in the kitchen dustbin.  

I pick up the can and check.

Oh yes, no doubt about it – it is the same beer-can.

And the beer can is empty...

I try to think, steady my confused mind.

Who can it be...?  

Everything becomes clear all of a sudden and I find myself shaking in sheer terror.

I rush to the bedroom, run around the house like a crazy animal.

Anjali is not at home.

I dial her mobile.

An excruciating wait as time stands still.

Anjali answers.  

“Anjali...? Where are you...?”  

“In the mall. Picking up some stuff for the evening.”  

“So early...?”  

“I took half a day off. Came home for lunch, got things tidied up and ready for the evening and am just getting a few things from the market. I’ll be back soon.”  

“Anjali. The beer...? The beer...? ” I stutter anxiously.  

“You want me to get more beer...? I thought we had enough.”  

“No. No. There is a beer-can missing in the fridge. I found it in the dustbin.”  

“Oh, that. I drank it in the afternoon,” Anjali says.  

“What...? You drank that beer...?” I shout anxiously.  

“Yes. I drank it. I came home in the afternoon. It was hot. I felt thirsty. So I opened the fridge, picked up a can of beer and I drank it. It’s that simple.”

“You stupid fool... Why did you drink that beer-can...?” I scream into the phone.  

“Stupid fool...? How dare you...? Ajay, have you lost it...? I just can’t understand your behaviour now-a-days...” Anjali says and disconnects.  

It was extraordinary, how my mind became clear all of a sudden.

There was no known antidote to the stuff I had synthesized.

Clinically, there was nothing I could do.

Logically, there was no point in doing something stupid in desperation.

It was a question of my own survival.

Having sunk to the depths of depravity, all I could do was helplessly wait and haplessly watch Anjali die.

She was less than sixty kilos, much lighter than Kumar.

By Saturday evening it would all be over...  

The evening passes in a haze.

My heart sinks as I watch Kumar enjoy beer after beer, but what’s the use...? 

That beer-can, the one I had specially prepared for him, is lying empty in the dustbin.

There is a gleam in Monica’s eye.

What excuse am I going to give her...?

She does not know what’s happened and I shudder to think what she may do when she realizes.

At best she may forget everything; but knowing her vindictive streak, anything is possible...

Inside I tremble with fear in unimaginable agony... outside I try to present a happy and cheerful façade and make pretence of enjoying the dinner.

Time crawls.

I feel wretched and suffer in painful silence the longest and most agonizing hours of my life.

Thursday. Friday. Saturday.

I closely observe Anjali for symptoms, waiting for the worst.

Nothing happens.

Anjali seems normal, in fact, quite hale and hearty.  

Sunday.

Anjali is still going strong...!

She sits across the dining table devouring her favorite idli-chutney-sambar Sunday breakfast.

I marvel at her constitution. 

Maybe her liver is super-strong.

Or maybe I’ve goofed up in my calculations.  

My cell-phone rings.

It’s Monica.

My heart skips a beat.  

“Hello,” I say with trepidation.  

“Ajay, congrats ... You’ve done it ... Kumar is dead. I just got a call from Mussoorie,” Monica says excitedly.  

“How...?” I mumble incredulously, perplexed, baffled out of my wits in consternation.  

“It happened exactly like you said. In the early hours of Sunday morning. He died in his sleep. They say maybe it was heart failure. Painless, instantaneous death.”

“I’ll come now...?” I ask Monica.  

“No... No... Not now. We can’t take chances. I’m rushing to Mussoorie now. I’ll finish off everything; make sure the paperwork is done okay. And when I return, you can come and offer your condolences…” I hear Monica’s voice trail away.  

I disconnect, put my mobile phone in my pocket, and look at Anjali.  

“Who was it...?” she asks.  

“Someone from the office,” I lie, trying to keep a straight face.  

“Anything important...?”  

“No. A man died. That’s all...” I say nonchalantly.  

I look at Anjali, into her large brown liquid eyes, and comprehension dawns on me like a bolt of lightening.

What a cuckold she has made me, a real sucker.

My brain goes into a tizzy. I wonder what I should do to her.

Yes, what should I do to this treacherous woman?

The possibilities are endless, aren’t they...?

And while I contemplate on my plan of action ... I think I’ll have some chilled beer ...

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013
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. 

NB:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013. All Rights Reserved

Did you like reading this blog post?
I am sure you will like all the 27 stories in my book  COCKTAIL an anthology of Short Fiction.
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 and blogger. Educated at IIT Delhi, IIT (BHU) 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 an anthology of short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and 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  and academic research papers in journals and edited in-house journals and magazines for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing and blogging. Vikram Karve 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: vikramwamankarve@gmail.com

Twitter: @vikramkarve

      

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.