CREATIVE WRITING - Creating Atmosphere Through Dialogue - An Example of the ICEBERG THEORY in SHORT FICTION

CREATIVE WRITING - Creating Atmosphere Through Dialogue - An Example of the ICEBERG THEORY in SHORT FICTION

OLD MAN AT THE BRIDGE by ERNEST HEMINGWAY

By

VIKRAM KARVE

When I started reading short stories my favourite authors were Somerset Maugham, Anton Chekhov, Rabindranath Tagore, Premchand, Leo Tolstoy and many other short fiction writers in various languages who “explained”  a lot in their narratives. 

That is why the first time I read a story by Ernest Hemingway, I too found the staccato dialogue based storytelling style of Ernest Hemingway quite terse and sparse. 

It was only when I started writing that I started realizing the merit in Ernest Hemingway's narration style (creating atmosphere through dialogue alone and leaving a lot to the reader's imagination). I feel that in modern online literature, like Blog Fiction, where brevity is a must, this writing style is most apt.

The writing style of Ernest Hemingway is often described by the term Iceberg Theory. 

At first sight his stories seem like just an exchange of dialogues with minimal explanations. 

The meaning of the story is not immediately evident, because the crux of the story lies below the surface, just as most of the mass of a real iceberg similarly lies beneath the surface of the sea.

Hemingway elaborated on the Iceberg Theory thus:

If it is any use to know it, I always try to write on the principle of the iceberg. There is seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows. Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg. If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.

One of the finest examples of the Iceberg Theory is the short story OLD MAN AT THE BRIDGE in which Ernest Hemingway demonstrates his superb narrative skills. 

He takes a seemingly ordinary event and by the art of story-telling transforms it into a powerful story about the tragedy of war. 

This simple story succeeds in capturing those pedestrian yet profound aspects of war that people often forget.

Old Man at the Bridge is one of Hemingway's shortest stories. 

First published in 1938 it is a sensitive story about refugees displaced by the Spanish Civil War and even though it is a quick read, the story is an insightful commentary on the effects of war on innocents and how war disrupts lives, of both people and animals.

OLD MAN AT THE BRIDGE is freely available to read on the internet. I am giving a link below and also posting the story below for your convenience.

http://soundandsense.blog.co.uk/2009/01/17/the-old-man-at-the-bridge-5394917/

Old Man At The Bridge

By

Ernest Hemingway

An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther. 

It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.

 

"Where do you come from?" I asked him.

 

"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled. 

That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.

 

"I was taking care of animals," he explained. "Oh," I said, not quite understanding.

 

"Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."  

He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his grey dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?" 

"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them." 

I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there. 

"What animals were they?" I asked.

 

"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons." 

"And you had to leave them?" I asked. 

"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery." 

"And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank. 

"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others." 

"What politics have you?" I asked. 

"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometres now and I think now I can go no further."

"This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa." 

"I will wait a while," he said, "and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"

 

"Towards Barcelona," I told him. 

"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much." 

He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share his worry with some one, "The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?" 

"Why they'll probably come through it all right." "You think so?" 

"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts. 

"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?" 

"Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked. "Yes." 

"Then they'll fly." 

"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.

 

"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now." 

"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust. 

"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals." 

There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a grey overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

Hemingway succinctly captures those aspects of war that people often forget. 

The author reminds us human life is not the only life disrupted by war. 

All living beings are affected by war. 

In fact the entire nature, is adversely affected by war. 

The old man symbolizes the victims of war. 

He talks about the animals under his care who he was forced to leave behind to fend for themselves. 

He has a cat which can probably flee. She is a symbol of the survivor because she has nine lives. 

He has pigeons which can fly away, so they can also flee. They are a symbol of peace. 

But the old man is neither like the cat nor the pigeons because he cannot flee like them. 

He is like the third animal he owns, the goat. He cannot escape and is a victim of the war like the goat.

The story OLD MAN AT  THE BRIDGE succinctly encapsulates the tragedy  of all those voiceless innocent men, women and children who are the victims of wars they neither support nor understand.

Ernest Hemingway is one of my favourite authors and so many of his inimitable short storiesare my favourites. I will certainly tell you about them in this series on my blog.

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 work. 

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Did you like reading this story?
I am sure you will like all the 27 stories in my recently published book of short stories COCKTAIL
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
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Foodie Book:  Appetite for a Stroll
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, 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 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 15 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

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

  

MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES Part 21 – VANKA

MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES

Part 21 – VANKA

By

VIKRAM KARVE

It is Hope that keeps you going in a situation of Hopelessness. 

In a nutshell, that is the message of Anton Chekhov’s brilliant story VANKA.

“Dear Grandfather...I am writing a letter to you.. I have no father and mother, and you alone are all I have left”  a desolate nine year old boy writes in his letter to his grandfather on Christmas Eve when his master and the family have gone to Church for the Christmas Eve Mass. 

The forlorn orphan boy describes his agony while working as a servant boy and the torment he suffers at the hands of his tyrannical master. He is made to work as a slave and trashed and beaten at the smallest opportunity and made to starve as a punishment. He feels lonely and scared in the big city of Moscow and is desperate to escape from this terrible life. In order to escape his depression Vanka relives his pleasant memories of the happy days with his grandfather in the village. Vanka pleads with his grandfather to come and take him back to the village. In exchange for his freedom, Vanka promises his grandfather that he would perform the tasks of his grandfather's everyday life in order to relieve the old man of his burden.  

Having finished writing the letter to his grandfather, Vanka is full of hope that his grandfather will surely come and rescue him. He folds the sheet of writing-paper twice, and puts it into the postal envelope he has bought the day before for a kopeck from the last of his meagre savings. Vanka has found out that dropping the letter in a letter box takes it to its destination. Ignorant of his grandfather’s address Vanka reflects for a while and addresses the envelope  To Grandfather in the Village. He scratches his head, thinks a little, and adds his grandfather’s name: Konstantin Makarich. Then he runs out on the street and posts the letter in the letter box.

We, the readers, know that this letter, addressed in such a way, is not likely to reach his grandfather in some distant remote village. But Vanka thinks that his grandfather will get his letter and know that after reading it his grandfather will surely come to Moscow to rescue him, free him from his tyranny and life of slavery and take him back to the happy life in the village.  Lulled by the sweetest of hopes, Vanka goes to sleep with these happy thoughts ands dreams of  his grandfather and his dog Eel wagging his tail.

Like most stories by Anton Chekhov this story VANKA is freely available to read on the internet. I am giving a few url links to the story and also pasting it below for your convenience.

Vanka

A short story by Anton Chekhov

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/5227/

http://www.classicreader.com/book/2148/1/

Title:     Vanka
Author: Anton Chekhov

Vanka Zhukov, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed to Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting till his master and mistress and their workmen had gone to the midnight service, he took out of his master's cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, began writing. Before forming the first letter he several times looked round fearfully at the door and the windows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides of which stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paper lay on the bench while he knelt before it.

"Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch," he wrote, "I am writing you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from God Almighty. I have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me."

Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his candle was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch, who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. He was a thin but extraordinarily nimble and lively little old man of sixty-five, with an everlastingly laughing face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the servants' kitchen, or made jokes with the cooks; at night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin, he walked round the grounds and tapped with his little mallet. Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and his long body like a weasel's, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionally polite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. Under his politeness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning. No one knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one's legs, to slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. His hind legs had been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he had been hanged, every week he was thrashed till he was half dead, but he always revived.

At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing up his eyes at the red windows of the church, stamping with his high felt boots, and joking with the servants. His little mallet was hanging on his belt. He was clasping his hands, shrugging with the cold, and, with an aged chuckle, pinching first the housemaid, then the cook.

"How about a pinch of snuff?" he was saying, offering the women his snuff-box.

The women would take a sniff and sneeze. Grandfather would be indescribably delighted, go off into a merry chuckle, and cry:

"Tear it off, it has frozen on!"

They give the dogs a sniff of snuff too. Kashtanka sneezes, wriggles her head, and walks away offended. Eel does not sneeze, from politeness, but wags his tail. And the weather is glorious. The air is still, fresh, and transparent. The night is dark, but one can see the whole village with its white roofs and coils of smoke coming from the chimneys, the trees silvered with hoar frost, the snowdrifts. The whole sky spangled with gay twinkling stars, and the Milky Way is as distinct as though it had been washed and rubbed with snow for a holiday.

Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing:

"And yesterday I had a wigging. The master pulled me out into the yard by my hair, and whacked me with a boot-stretcher because I accidentally fell asleep while I was rocking their brat in the cradle. And a week ago the mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began from the tail end, and she took the herring and thrust its head in my face. The workmen laugh at me and send me to the tavern for vodka, and tell me to steal the master's cucumbers for them, and the master beats me with anything that comes to hand. And there is nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, for dinner, porridge, and in the evening, bread again; but as for tea, or soup, the master and mistress gobble it all up themselves. And I am put to sleep in the passage, and when their wretched brat cries I get no sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear grandfather, show the divine mercy, take me away from here, home to the village. It's more than I can bear. I bow down to your feet, and will pray to God for you for ever, take me away from here or I shall die."

Vanka's mouth worked, he rubbed his eyes with his black fist, and gave a sob.

"I will powder your snuff for you," he went on. "I will pray for you, and if I do anything you can thrash me like Sidor's goat. And if you think I've no job, then I will beg the steward for Christ's sake to let me clean his boots, or I'll go for a shepherd-boy instead of Fedka. Dear grandfather, it is more than I can bear, it's simply no life at all. I wanted to run away to the village, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of the frost. When I grow up big I will take care of you for this, and not let anyone annoy you, and when you die I will pray for the rest of your soul, just as for my mammy's."

"Moscow is a big town. It's all gentlemen's houses, and there are lots of horses, but there are no sheep, and the dogs are not spiteful. The lads here don't go out with the star, and they don't let anyone go into the choir, and once I saw in a shop window fishing-hooks for sale, fitted ready with the line and for all sorts of fish, awfully good ones, there was even one hook that would hold a forty-pound sheat-fish. And I have seen shops where there are guns of all sorts, after the pattern of the master's guns at home, so that I shouldn't wonder if they are a hundred roubles each. And in the butchers' shops there are grouse and woodcocks and fish and hares, but the shopmen don't say where they shoot them."

"Dear grandfather, when they have the Christmas tree at the big house, get me a gilt walnut, and put it away in the green trunk. Ask the young lady Olga Ignatyevna, say it's for Vanka."

Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. He remembered how his grandfather always went into the forest to get the Christmas tree for his master's family, and took his grandson with him. It was a merry time! Grandfather made a noise in his throat, the forest crackled with the frost, and looking at them Vanka chortled too. Before chopping down the Christmas tree, grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a pinch of snuff, and laugh at frozen Vanka. The young fir trees, covered with hoar frost, stood motionless, waiting to see which of them was to die. Wherever one looked, a hare flew like an arrow over the snowdrifts. Grandfather could not refrain from shouting: "Hold him, hold him, hold him! Ah, the bob-tailed devil!"

When he had cut down the Christmas tree, grandfather used to drag it to the big house, and there set to work to decorate it. The young lady, who was Vanka's favourite, Olga Ignatyevna, was the busiest of all. When Vanka's mother Pelageya was alive, and a servant in the big house, Olga Ignatyevna used to give him goodies, and having nothing better to do, taught him to read and write, to count up to a hundred, and even to dance a quadrille. When Pelageya died, Vanka had been transferred to the servants' kitchen to be with his grandfather, and from the kitchen to the shoemaker's in Moscow.

"Do come, dear grandfather," Vanka went on with his letter. "For Christ's sake, I beg you, take me away. Have pity on an unhappy orphan like me; here everyone knocks me about, and I am fearfully hungry; I can't tell you what misery it is, I am always crying. And the other day the master hit me on the head with a last, so that I fell down. My life is wretched, worse than any dog's. I send greetings to Alyona, one-eyed Yegorka, and the coachman, and don't give my concertina to anyone. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov. Dear grandfather, do come."

Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into an envelope he had bought the day before for a kopeck. After thinking a little, he dipped the pen and wrote the address:

To Grandfather in the Village.

Then he scratched his head, thought a little, and added: Konstantin Makaritch. Glad that he had not been prevented from writing, he put on his cap and, without putting on his little greatcoat, ran out into the street as he was in his shirt.

The shopmen at the butcher's, whom he had questioned the day before, told him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxes were carried about all over the earth in mail coaches drawn by horses and driven by drunken drivers and ringing bells. Vanka ran to the nearest post-box, and thrust the precious letter in the slit.

An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep. He dreamed of the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging his bare legs, and reading the letter to the cooks.

By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail.

Set in a time where poverty, slavery and child labour were quite common, this story makes a powerful statement against the terrible consequences of child labour and the damaging traumatic effect of children. Child labour has been banned. But look around you. Do see someone like Vanka?

Do tell me if you liked this remarkable story by the master storyteller Anton Chekhov.

VIKRAM KARVE

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

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

Do try out this delicious, heady and exciting COCKTAIL

http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme

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http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-karve.html

About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and he is currently working on his novel. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 14 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram lives in Pune India with his family and muse - his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts. 

Vikram Karve Academic and Creative Writing Journal: 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          

vikramkarve@gmail.com 

Fiction Short Stories Book

COCKTAIL : Short Stories about Relationships By VIKRAM KARVE

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

Foodie Book:  Appetite for a Stroll

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

 

WHY MY STORIES HAVE ABRUPT ENDINGS

WHY MY STORIES HAVE ABRUPT ENDINGS

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Malavika says that my stories have abrupt endings. Malavika means “Pretty Princess”, and the Malavika who told me that my stories have abrupt endings is indeed very pretty.  And Princess – oh yes, she has all the charm of a true princess. I’ll tell you about my tête-à-tête at Polka Dots with the vivacious, effervescent, talented Malavika later. Now, let me tell you why my stories have abrupt endings. 

I started writing short fiction in the early 1990s when I lived in the hills of Girinagar, a beautiful verdant green forest in the back of beyond below the mighty Sinhagad Fort and overlooking the placid blue waters of the Khadakvasla lake near Pune. From Monday to Friday, during the daytime, I would be busy with my work, but every morning and evening I took long walks thinking interesting thoughts and by Friday the plot for my next story would be ready in my mind.  

Yes, I did all my creative writing on weekends. I would write a short story every week in long hand, which my darling wife would then type on her portable typewriter. Then I would then post my “double-spaced neatly typed story” to magazines like Citadel, a magazine published monthly from Pune for which I was a regular fiction writer, or the Indian Express for its Thursday literary magazine called Citizen, or other magazines that carried fiction.  

On Saturday morning I would drop my wife and kids at the bus stop and they would be off to spend the weekend in Pune with their grannies. Then, in my glorious solitude, I would to start writing. I love writing, so once I start I transcend into a state of timelessness, and suddenly I would hear the shrill ring of the phone and I would realize that my two days of creative bliss were over and it was already Sunday evening and my wife was calling to tell me she was starting from Pune and would be reaching Khadakvasla bus stop in an hour. 

Panic would set in. Now, I had just one hour left to finish my story. (I had to complete the story I was writing otherwise it would spill over to the next weekend, and I did not want to breach my self-imposed one story a week target). Therefore, I had no choice but to finish off the story with an abrupt ending – coup de grace!  

Maybe this developed into a habit and old habits die hard, but I will have to change my style and I will try my best to see that my stories have more unhurried, relaxed, satisfying, happy endings that leave a pleasant smooth aftertaste. So, it’s back to the basics for me – let me re-read two of my favourite Anton Chekhov stories with classic endings:  Ninochka and The Lady with the Pet Dog. 

Thanks for the feedback, Pretty Princess. No more unrequited romances or unsolved mysteries from me now – everyone is going to live happily ever after – and I am sure this will help me while I write my novel (and maybe my relationships will stop having abrupt endings too!). 

VIKRAM KARVE

PS – And talking of relationships, well, relationships are like cocktails. Every relationship is a unique labyrinthine melange of emotions, shaken and stirred, and, like each cocktail, has a distinctive flavour and taste.  

Dear Reader, why don’t you try out COCKTAIL – my latest book comprising twenty-seven stories that explore fascinating aspects of modern day relationships: love, romance, sex, betrayal, marriage, parenting, even pet parenting.  

You will relish reading these riveting cocktails of intermingling emotions narrated in a temptingly engaging style, and once you start reading you will find this delicious “cocktail” unputdownable until the very end.  

To order from FLIPKART please click the link below:

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If you prefer, you can even order it by making a call to dial-a-book. For those wary on online money transactions, there is the Cash-on-Delivery option on Flipkart as well as Dial-a-Book. 

Author Bio 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

vikramkarve@gmail.com

COCKTAIL : Short Stories about Relationships By VIKRAM KARVE

http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme

http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/fiction/cocktail_by_vikram_karve.html

Foodie Book:

 Appetite for a Stroll

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

DEAD END

DEAD END

Short Fiction – A Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

I wrote this short story sometime in the mid 1990s. Then, it was highly appreciated. I think it is quite relevant even today.

Manjunath was a contended man.

He was the proud owner of a coconut grove, more than a hundred trees, located on the most picturesque stretch of the western coast, skirting the Arabian Sea. The land was fertile and the yield was excellent.

Every morning, along with his wife and two sons, Manjunath would cast his fishing nets into the gentle waters of Baicol Bay, and in the evening, when he pulled in his nets with the receding tide, the catch would be adequate, if not substantial.

I loved Baicol Bay. It was a most beautiful and pristine place by the sea and sunset, on the western coast, was a special event.

So every evening, I went for a jog on the soft unspoilt beach, and after a swim in the crystal-clear waters, I relaxed on the sands, beholding the fascinating, yet soothing, spectacle of the mighty orange sun being devoured under the horizon of the sea.

As darkness enveloped, Manjunath would gently appear by my side with a tender coconut in hand.

At that moment, there was nothing more refreshing than sweet coconut water.

The year was 1980 and I was a fresh, young and idealistic Indian Police Service (IPS) Officer, on my first posting, as Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) of this lovely coastal district.

The air was fresh and unpolluted and the weather was temperate. There was no railway line, no industries, and no noise. The district headquarters was a one-street town. Everybody knew everybody, the people were peace-loving, and in the prevailing climate of contentment, it was no surprise that the crime-rate was almost zero.

One day, my boss, the Superintendent of Police (SP) took me to an important meeting in the District Collector’s office.

As I heard the words of the Collector, I experienced a deep sense of distress. A notification had been issued and a mammoth Steel Plant had been sanctioned in the Baicol Bay area. Land Acquisition was the immediate top priority. The police were to ensure that there was no law and order problem.

“But why can’t they locate the Steel Plant somewhere else?” I protested. “This lovely palace will be ruined. And where will the people go?”

At first, the Collector appeared dumbstruck by my interruption. Then he glowered at me with a fierce and threatening stare. I avoided his gaze and looked around the room. Everyone was looking at me in a curious manner. My boss, the SP, was desperately gesturing to me to keep quiet.

“I wonder whose side you are on?” the Collector snapped angrily, still giving me an intimidating glare.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” the SP spoke, addressing the Collector. “There will be no problems. The people here are a docile lot. Everything shall proceed smoothly.”

When we were driving back to our office, the SP said, “Joshi, you better tame your tongue and watch what you say, especially in front of others.”

“Sir, you please tell me. Isn’t this injustice? We pay them a pittance for their fertile land. And then evict them from their habitat, and destroy the beauty of this place, just because someone decides to set up a set up a Steel Plant here.”

“It’s in the national interest, Joshi. Why don’t you try and understand. Everyone shall be properly rehabilitated with a job and a house and also get a compensation.”

“Come on, sir,” I argued. “You know where we are going to relocate them. The rehabilitation camp is more than twenty kilometres away from the sea front. And we are putting them into small overcrowded multi-storeyed tenements, which are at complete variance from their ethos. These people are used to open spaces, fresh air, and most important – the waterfront, the sea.”

“That’s enough, Joshi,” the SP said angrily. “Your job is to carry out my orders. I want you to take personal charge of this operation. The task must be completed smoothly and on schedule. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied meekly.

That evening I held a meeting with the affected villagers. Manjunath was sitting in the first row, right in front of me. I spoke of patriotism, sacrifice for the “national cause” and the prosperity the Steel Plant would bring into their lives.

To my utter surprise, there was no resistance. Everyone seemed convinced, I think because they where simple people who believed every word I said, but to my own self, my own words sounded insincere and I felt acutely uncomfortable.

And so the operation began.

Awe-struck, Manjunath saw the might of the government on display. He watched with tears in his eyes, columns of police standing by, while bulldozers destroyed his beloved coconut grove.

 

A few days later Manjunath stood before the employment officer. The employment officer was in a foul mood. “These illiterate buggers get jobs on a platter while my matriculate brother-in-law rots unemployed in city,” he complained, “I had promised my wife that I would wrangle at least a Class IV job for him out here.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the rehabilitation officer. “These so-called ‘illiterate buggers’, as you call them, were land-owners, displaced from their own land.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot,” the employment officer said to the rehabilitation officer. Then he looked at Manjunath and curtly asked him, “Do you posses any special skills?”

Manjunath could not comprehend, so he just stood silent.

In an exasperated manner, the employment officer snapped, “We haven’t got all day. Tell me. What can you do?”

“Coconuts,” Manjunath answered.

“Coconuts?”

“Yes, Sir. Coconuts.”

“What else?”

“Fish.”

“Fish and Coconuts, eh! You’ll see plenty of them,” the employment officer said. He wrote the word ‘cook’ beside Manjunath’s name in the register.

And so, at one stroke, Manjunath was transformed, from land-owner into a cook, first in the ramshackle canteen for construction workers and later in the huge industrial canteen of the Steel Plant.

But Manjunath was lucky. At least he had become a cook. Most others became Unskilled Labourers because the skills they possessed, like farming and fishing, were not relevant as far as the Steel Plant was concerned.

And so almost all the “skilled” workers – the tradesmen, all the welders, fitters, machinists, electricians etc. – they all came from outside, from faraway places, the cities and the urban areas. And the complexion of the place began to change.

Soon I stooped going for my daily evening jog to Baicol beach, for now it was littered with debris from the construction work and the air was no longer pure, but polluted by fumes and dust and the noise was unbearable.

And, of course, now there would be no Manjunath waiting for me with a tender coconut in hand.

So when my transfer came, I felt relieved and happy, for I no longer loved the place and, more so, because it was getting painful to see the beginning of the systematic metamorphosis of a beautiful natural paradise into a huge monster of concrete and steel.

When I returned after fifteen long years, the place had change beyond recognition. The gigantic steel plant, the railway line, the new port, the industries, the ‘fruits’ of liberalization and the signs of prosperity, modern buildings adorned by adjoining slums, filth and polluted air, all types of vehicles clogging the roads, restaurants and bars, the noise and even most of the people looked alien.

As we drove down to the police headquarters, the SP said, “It’s not the same place when you were here, sir.”

“The crime-rate was zero then,” I said. “What has gone wrong?”

“There are two types of people now, Sir – the liberalised Indian and the marginalised Indian.”

“And us!”

“And us,” he laughed, “yes, sir, and us trying to sort the whole thing out.”

I was head of the crime branch at the state police headquarters and had been sent down to investigate a series of bizarre murders. A few bigwigs were waylaid, had their heads chopped off and their headless bodies dumped outside their houses. It had created such a scare that my boss had rushed me down.

The car stopped. I recognized the place at once.

“The common thread, sir,” the SP said. “All the victims lived in this luxury residential enclave.”

“I knew this place,” I said, feeling a tinge of nostalgia. “There used to be a coconut grove here. This place was acquired for the steel plant. But now I see that it is just outside the perimeter wall. I wonder why they excluded this area.”

“Must be the environment stipulations, sir,” the SP mumbled, “the two hundred meter zone or something. They must have de-notified it.”

“Don’t give me bullshit!” I shouted. “Then how the hell has this posh residential complex come up here? And if they didn’t want the land for the steel plant then why wasn’t this land returned back to the original owners?”

         

“Sir, land which was sold by the acre in your time, fifteen years ago, is now priced the same per square foot.”

“The fruits of progress, is it?” I snapped.

I could see that the SP was getting confused by my unexpected line of investigation, and he was getting a bit scared too, for I was a DIG. So I decided to put him at ease.

“Tell me, Pandey,” I said patronizingly. “What were you before joining the IPS?”

“An Engineer, Sir. From IIT, Delhi.”

I wasn’t surprised. Engineers, even doctors, were joining the IAS and IPS nowadays. I looked at the SP and said, “Let me explain in a way you will understand.”

Pandey was looking at me intently.

I paused, and asked him. “Do you know what’s a system?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Every system has a natural rhythm,” I said, “take this place for example. All the people here in this system, farmers, fishermen, everyone, they all had a natural rhythm of life which perfectly matched the rhythm of this place. And there was harmony. Then suddenly we disturb the system. We drastically change the rhythm of the place. Create a mismatch. And when the people can’t cope up, we call them ‘marginalised Indians’ – as you put it.”

Pandey looked thoroughly confused, so I avoided further rhetoric and came straight to the point, “You are looking for a motive, isn’t it, Pandey?”

“Yes, Sir,” he said.

“Okay, consider this. You own some fertile land. We forcibly acquire it, mouthing platitudes like ‘national interest’, ‘patriotism’ etc. Then we sit on your land for fifteen long years while you are reduced from an owner to a labourer. And then, one fine day, you find that your beloved land been grabbed by some land-sharks from the city. What would you do?”

The SP did not reply.

“Do one thing, Pandey,” I said. “There’s a man called Manjunath. He probably works as a cook in the Steel Plant canteen. Bring him to me. He may have some clue and maybe he will give us a lead.”

In my mind’s eye I was thinking how to get Manjunath off the hook.

An hour later the SP came rushing into the police headquarters. He looked dazed, as if he had been pole-axed. “The guy went crazy,” he stammered. “When the police party approached him, he was chopping coconuts with a sharp sickle. Suddenly he slashed his own neck. He died on the way to hospital. There’s blood everywhere.”

In the morgue, looking at Manjunath’s dead body the SP commented, “Look at the expression on his face, sir. He looks so content.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s reached the dead end.”

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010
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.  

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop's School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. 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. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book "Appetite for a Stroll". Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts. 

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