CUCKOLD

CUCKOLD

Fiction Short Story 

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives: Short Fiction - A Mystery...

It’s a lazy Sunday morning and I sit languidly in my balcony reminiscing the good old days of my wonderful past, melancholically mourning the gloomy and depressing present, and speculating 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’s 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’ve come to see you.”  

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

“Yes, Ajay, I know Anjali is not at home. I’ve 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’ve 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 pop off here...”  

“He won’t. I’ll calculate everything precisely – make sure there’s 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, her liver, it’s got to be super-strong; or maybe I’ve goofed up!  

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's made me, a real sucker.

My brain goes into a tizzy. I wonder what I should do to her.  The possibilities are endless, aren't they...?

And while I contemplate on my plan of action...I think I'll have a chilled beer...

CUCKOLD

Fiction Short Story 

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

 

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 educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, 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.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog - http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
Academic Journal Vikram Karve – http://karvediat.blogspot.com/
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve - http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

© vikram karve., all rights reserved. 

 

CLINICAL DIAGNOSIS An Apocryphal Story

CLINICAL DIAGNOSIS

An Apocryphal Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

When I was a small boy living in Pune in the 1960s, if you fell ill you called your family doctor home and he checked you up.

Every family had their own family doctor, a General Practitioner (GP), who was like a member of the family. He knew all about your medical and family history and you had explicit faith in your family doctor and you had a mutually rewarding relationship.

After a thorough physical examination to diagnose what was wrong, your family doctor either gave you medicines or an injection there and then or he asked someone to come over to his clinic to collect medicines which were mostly mixtures of ground tablets or liquid concotions prepared by the compounder and given to you in bottles with dosages indicated by stuck paper strips.

My doctor friend tells me that this approach is called Clinical Diagnosis. Surfing the internet I found that clinical diagnosis is a diagnosis based on a study of the signs and symptoms of a disease (The American Heritage® Medical Dictionary 2007) or a diagnosis made on the basis of knowledge obtained by medical history and physical examination alone, without benefit of laboratory tests or x-ray films (Mosby's Medical Dictionary, 8th edition, 2009, Elsevier).

Nowadays GPs seem to have vanished and you have to go to a specialist if you fall ill. And the specialist sends you for a series of laboratory tests – blood, urine et al – and then studies the reports and prescribes medicines accordingly. My doctor friend tells me that this is called evidence based diagnosis.

In a lighter vein let me share with you a humorous story, surely apocryphal, that my doctor friend narrated to me on this subject.

A woman brought her unconscious pet parrot to a veterinary doctor (vet).

The vet physically examined the lifeless bird and told the woman that her pet parrot was dead.

The distressed woman wailed, “Are you sure…?”

“Yes. I am sure. Your parrot is dead…” the vet said.

“How can you be so sure…? You haven’t done any tests or anything on my parrot…” the distraught woman said, “I don't believe you … You are just an ordinary vet … I want to show him to a specialist…”

The vet nodded his head and said, “Okay...”

He then turned around and left the room and returned a few minutes later with a dog – a black Labrador retriever.

As the woman looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and sniffed the parrot from top to bottom. The Labrador then looked up at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head. The vet patted the dog on the head and the Lab went out of the room wagging its tail.

A few minutes the vet returned with a cat. The cat jumped on the table and also delicately sniffed the parrot from head to foot. The cat sat back on its haunches, shook its head, meowed softly and the vet lifted the cat and sent it out of the room.

Then the vet looked at the woman and said, “I am sorry, but as I said, your parrot is definitely dead.”

The vet then went to his desk and wrote out his bill which he gave to the woman.

The woman, still recovering from the grief of the death of her beloved pet parrot, was totally stunned with disbelief when she saw the bill.

“What…!!! Two Thousand Rupees…?” the woman protested in bewilderment and she said, “You are charging me Rupees Two Thousand just to tell me that my parrot is dead…? This is ridiculous…!”

The vet shrugged and said, “I am sorry but it is you who wanted to show your parrot to a specialist. If you had taken my word for it, my bill would have been just Fifty Rupees, but the Lab Report cost Rs. 950 and the Cat Scan a further Rs. 1000 so that totals Two Thousand Rupees…"

Dear Reader, do tell me if you liked the story…

VIKRAM KARVE 

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, 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.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com  

Academic and Creative Writng Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com

Professional Profile of Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve 

Foodie Book APPETITE FOR A STROLL :  http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

FALLING IN LOVE

FALLING IN LOVE

Short Fiction - A Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives: One of my earliest mushy romantic stories

 

 

            HIS STORY

 

Sanjay stared blankly at the TV set, never so frightened, never so alone.  He couldn’t believe the news.  The plane had crashed.  There were no survivors.  His wife was dead.  This was one contingency that he had never reckoned with.

 

  Sanjay had spent a good deal of time worrying about what would happen to Shalini, if he had died.  In fact, he had always presumed, and even taken for granted, that he would die first and had accordingly planned meticulously and made elaborate and adequate financial provisions for her in case something should happen to him.

 

  But he had never for a moment considered what would happen to him if Shalini died.  She had been an integral part of him and he couldn’t even imagine living without her.  He felt emotionally shattered.  He wanted to cry but tears refused to come in his eyes and his throat felt dry.  He lapsed into a zombie-like state of shock.

 

            His recollections of the next few days were just vivid flashes in a void.  At first, in desperate hope he had rushed to the airport to check the passenger list, hoping that by some miracle she had not been on board.  Little realizing that it was he who had seen her off.  Then there were condolence visits, and the airlines insurance forms.  He didn’t want any money, or condolences.  He wanted his wife back.  Heartbroken with grief and a strange fear of loneliness, Sanjay had sunk into a state of suspended vacuum, devoid of cognizance.  

 

            As he gradually came into consciousness from his drunken stupor, Sanjay realized that he had lost control over his life.  He opened his eyes with trepidation.  Everything looked blurred.  Slowly things began to come a little more into focus.  He was in a train – lying down on the lower berth in a first class compartment.  On the opposite berth sat a family – a young man, his wife and their small daughter.  The man was looking at him in disgust, the wife with pity, and the daughter with fear.  Sanjay felt ashamed of himself and closed his eyes, in embarrassment, trying to escape from reality.  As he lay on the berth indulging in self-commiseration, Sanjay had the lonely realization that there is indeed a moment when a man has no friend.  There was no one to share his grief.  Wallowing in a mood of self-pity in his private self-created hell, Sanjay had developed acute social phobia.  He was afraid of meeting people, attending social gatherings.  He had internalized his feelings to such an extent that he had even become a victim of agoraphobia - a fear of being in open or public places.  It was a crippling illness.  He was scared of leaving his home, afraid of even going to his office and meeting his colleagues.  Sanjay was rapidly sinking into the depths of a loneliness induced melancholic depression – to the point of no return.  The end of the road was in sight.

 

            “The most important thing is the ability to loosen and get rid of something that is worrying you, and forget your sorrow,” advised Anand, Sanjay’s boss.  “Life must go on.  What you need is break, a change of scene.  There is a technical seminar in Chennai next week.  I am sending you to attend it.  It should be of professional interest to you – in fact, I have intimated the organizers that you shall be giving a lecture regarding the successful project you completed last year.  Get busy and banish your sorrow.”

 

            “It’s easy to mouth platitudes,” thought Sanjay.  He tried to prepare the lecture but could not concentrate.  He had been totally overcome by feelings of hopelessness and a sense of failure.  He had lost his self–confidence.  He looked at his watch – it was six o’clock in the evening; his train was at eight o’clock .  The thought of traveling, facing so many people at the seminar and delivering the lecture – all these induced a strange fear in him.  He was overcome by phobia.  In his frustration, for the first time in his life, he began to drink.  Trying to escape from reality, he drank quite a lot – almost the whole bottle of whisky.  He could vaguely remember Anand taking him to the railway station and helping him to the train.  Anand’s parting words had an ominous ring about them,  “It’s your last chance Sanjay.  To get hold of yourself.”

 

            Sanjay entered the auditorium and stood near the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.  Slowly things began to come into view.  He was late.  The seminar was already in progress.  The auditorium was small and compact.  It was shaped like a quadrant of a circle, with a raised podium in the central.  The rows of seats were arranged in the fashion of curved arcs, split radially in the centre by the aisle.  Each row was raised behind the one in front, in elevated steps, thereby affording each member of the audience a clear view, not only of the speaker, but also of each person sitting in the audience.  Sanjay sat down on a vacant seat in the last row and surveyed his surroundings.  His eyes had adjusted themselves to the subdued lighting and he could see clearly now.  Most of the participants appeared to be professionals, smartly dressed in formal suits, with a sprinkling of academics easily distinguishable by their patent attire of bush-shirts and sandals.  There was also small group of women, dressed in formal saris, sitting diagonally opposite across the aisle.

 

  As he surveyed the group, his eyes suddenly lit upon a stunningly attractive woman wearing a blue sari.  She was a real beauty.  She radiated an extraordinary sensuousness; of such a degree that Sanjay just could not take his eyes off her.  He felt as if his eyes had locked on to her face.  She exuded a captivating aura about her, which ravished his now hungry eyes.  He feasted his eyes on her lovely face.  She looked pristine – so fresh, so pure.  He was oblivious of his surroundings; he only had eyes for her.  Sanjay was in a haze of delight.  For the first time since his wife’s death did Sanjay feel completely relaxed; once again, he was in harmony with himself.

 

 At first, didn’t notice the lights being switched on.  He had been completely absorbed by her radiant sensuousness, almost in a trance.  As she got up from her seat, the woman turned and looked at him.  Their eyes met.  He hoped that his genuine adoration had not gone unnoticed.  She gave him a glance that could have meant anything.  No response.  He was disappointed.  But he was not going to give up so easily.

 

 He caught her eyes again, looking steadily and directly:  passionate admiration and yearning radiating from his eyes.  She held his gaze in a kind of challenge, there was a lengthy pause and then she smiled.  He felt relieved, and elated.  The frank admiration in his eyes had won him a smile.  Her large youthful eyes were now fastened on his.  There was a language in her eyes, which Sanjay could not fully fathom.  Happy and gay, her eyes conveyed a certain naïveté tinged with curiosity, possibly approval.  For Sanjay, it was a moment of supreme satisfaction.  He felt renewed and refreshed.  Suddenly, contact was broken as somebody blocked his line of sight.

 

  Everyone was walking towards the exit for the tea break.  Sanjay had now lost sight of her.  She had gone out for tea.  Sanjay kept sitting.  The auditorium was now empty.  He closed his eyes in introspection.  He felt calm and serene.  In his mind’s eye he could clearly visualize her exquisite face and magnetic eyes.  And her tantalizing smile – teasing, almost naughty.  Sanjay could not begin to describe the sensation.  She evoked in him.  Certainly it was pleasurable and had a soothing effect on his frayed nerves.  A much needed palliative.

 

            When Sanjay opened his eyes he noticed that the woman had shifted her seat and was sitting alone, across the aisle, much closer than before, affording a better view.  She was looking at him in a canny manner, and when he caught her eye, she quickly turned her gaze towards the podium.  Sanjay experienced an encouraging flush of self-confidence.  He got up from his seat, moved forward, and took up a strong tactical position.  He now had an unobstructed, clear view of her from the most favorable aspect.  He noticed that her eyes had been tracking him.  He looked into her eyes and smiled.  There was a conspiratorial look in her expressive eyes, at once inviting, and taunting.  She was teasing him with her eyes, as if her stimulus had evoked a response; or was it vice – versa.   

 

            Encouraged by her enthusiastic response, Sanjay indulged himself lavishly.  He made love to her with his eyes.  She responded with unrestrained zeal, genuine exhilaration pouring out of her eyes.  As their mutual visual interplay became intense, Sanjay was transported to an ecstatic state of supreme bliss.

 

            Mesmerized in her enchanting eyes, Sanjay was in a delightful trance, oblivious of his surroundings, forgetting his grief.  This immensely enjoyable experience had, at least momentarily, liberated him from his inner tyranny.

 

            As he walked back to his hotel in the evening Sanjay was bubbling with joy.  He experienced a unique state of awareness and self–confidence.  Renewed and invigorated, he felt on top of the world.  His lecture was scheduled the next day.  His would work hard and make it a success.  He had to do it, at least for her.

 

 She was his inspiration.  He felt confident.  He was going to give an impressive performance; make a lasting impression on her.  She would never forget him.  Luckily he had got his chance and he was going to make the most of it.  As his thoughts ran on, he felt charged with energy. Sanjay had bounced back into life again.  He felt buoyant, as though he had traveled through a long dark tunnel and, suddenly, burst out into the bright open countryside again.

 

 

HER STORY

            Rajashree lay on her bed, sleep eluding her.  She was in a state of pleasurable excitation.  She felt good; on top of the world.  The day had passed in a haze of delight.  Rajashree had never imagined that such a seemingly trivial experience would give her so much pleasure and bring happiness into her life.  But this was no synthetic experience.  It had been genuine and real – had actually happened to her – and was profoundly affecting her.  She explored her own feelings, the stimulus of the welter of events and her response.   

 

            When she had first noticed the handsome, bearded man staring at her, she had uncomfortable but had resigned herself to his ogling – what she believed was a masculine propensity in Indian society.  Maybe he was just looking in her direction, since she was sitting with a group of women.  She decided to ignore it. In any case, she couldn’t do anything about it.  

 

But curiosity got the better of her.  After some time she looked in his direction through the corner of her eyes.  He was still looking at her.  She got confused.  “What was his motive?” she wondered.  Was he trying to seduce her?  She dare not smile back or appear too friendly lest he misinterpret it as a sign of easy availability.  Rajashree felt irritated at the invasion of her private space.  His visual intrusion was disturbing the equilibrium of her personal inner zone. 

 

            Suddenly the lights came on. As she got up she came into eye contact with him.  She tried to avoid his gaze.  But she could not avert the magnetic pull of his eyes.  She looked straight into his eyes, trying to project defiance.  But when she saw the genuine ardor and frank admiration in his eyes, her defenses broke down and she smiled.

 

            At the tea break, as she picked up a cup of tea, Rajashree searched for him.  He had not come out.  Rajashree sat down in a remote corner.  Sipping her tea, she explored her feelings.  The seemingly trivial encounter had definitely raised her spirits.  She felt good.  Fresh, buoyant and youthful, Rajashree was no clairvoyant to look into the province of Sanjay ’s mind, but she was curious to know the extent of his feelings.

 

            “What does he want from me? “ she wondered.  “Is he really attracted to me or is it my vicarious imagination titillating me?”

 

            Rajashree made a spontaneous decision, trusting her intuition.  If he was playing a game, she too would join in.  A bit of harmless flirtation never hurt anyone.  She went into the auditorium and sat on a vacant seat much closer to him.  She noticed that the man was sitting silently with his eyes closed, as if he were meditating.  Even as she was feeling a flush of disappointment, he suddenly opened his eyes.  The astonishment evident in his surprised eyes made her realize that she had been ogling at him unabashedly.  She quickly turned her eyes away in momentary sense of guilty embarrassment, and then recovered.

 

  He had shifted to a better position and was smiling at her.  She felt a tremor of anticipation at his positive response and teased him with her eyes.  She surrendered herself and her inhibitions to the mysterious rhythm of their spontaneous interaction and locked her eyes into his, radiating unconcealed feelings of joy.  As they made ethereal love to each other with their eyes, she experienced immense enjoyment and unparalleled pleasure.  It was the first genuine physical attraction she had felt for anyone since her bitter divorce.  It had been a long time ago, and not since then had the mere sight of a man aroused the womanhood in her to such an extent.

 

 

 

THEIR STORY

 

            Sanjay delivered the lecture with newfound verve, radiating self-confidence and professional competence. Rajashree was sitting in the first row.  From time to time, Sanjay looked at her.  She was directly concentrating on him; the language of her eyes clearly projecting approbation, assurance and encouragement.  Silently, she cheered him on.  She was Sanjay’s inspiration, his motivation and, at that moment, his raison d’etre.

 

            “As the applause died down, Sanjay sat down on the stage.  He looked at Rajashree.  She gave him a canny look of congratulation, got up from her seat and left the auditorium.  Sanjay, desperately wanted to follow her, but he was helpless.  The chairman was delivering the vote of thanks for him and Sanjay couldn’t possibly leave the stage.

 

 Time crawled.  Sanjay became anxious.   The chairman was going on and on with his long-winded speech.  Sanjay looked at his watch.  He realized that the chairman had spoken only for five minutes.  But these five minutes were the longest five minutes of Sanjay’s life.

 

  He was desperate to meet her; afraid he would lose her, forever.   She was the one bright spot in his present life.  He did not want to lose her.  In his frustration, he mentally cursed the speaker for taking so long.  Finally, he could take it no longer.  He excused himself and left the auditorium.

 

 Outside, he frantically searched for her.  But there was no joy – he drew a blank wherever he looked for her.  Sanjay was crestfallen.  His mind went blank.  Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder.  He turned around in anticipation.  He was disappointed.  It was some other woman – one of the seminar delegates.  Probably wanting to compliment him on his lecture.

 

            “Mr. Sanjay Kulkarni?” the woman delegate queried, her eyes arched.

 

            He nodded in affirmation.

 

            “A letter for you,” she said, giving him a synthetic smile; and before he could react, quietly walked away.

 

            Sanjay tore open the envelope and began to read the letter.  His pulse had quickened and it was only with difficulty that he could concentrate and focus his eyes.

 

            “Dear Mr. Kulkarni,” the letter began, “or shall I call you Sanjay? Don’t wonder how I have found out your name.  It was announced before your lecture.  I cannot express in words, or begin to describe, the sentiments and feelings you have evoked in me.  The language of our eyes was something that surpassed the language of words and speech.

 

  I want to cherish those wonderful moments - the sublime experience.  It was the one bright spot in my depressingly vapid life.  I never imagined that such a seemingly trivial occurrence would have such a profound influence on me.  The appreciation and love in your eyes aroused the dormant woman in me.  For years, after my bitter divorce, I had repressed my natural feelings, forgotten the simple joys of living.  

 

 I saw true love in your eyes and that is why I am afraid of meeting you.  I do not want our beautiful sublime relationship degenerate into something physical.  I feel as if I am caught between two fires – my sense of values and my emotions.  I am experiencing the conflict between the practical and poetic vision of life.  Our strange and brief encounter has awakened the womanhood in me.  I feel youthful and invigorated, but also lonely and vulnerable.  I have fallen in love with you.  That is why I am scared of facing you.  I am afraid I shall ruin everything by succumbing to temptation.  It may lead to something that we both may later regret.

 

            It may sound strange but the lively experience has also awakened the motherhood in me.  It may appear irrelevant and trivial, but it is true.  I had put my daughter in a boarding school in Ooty.  Maybe I wanted to shield her. Maybe I felt I had no time for her. Only my ambitions, my career mattered.  I had got my priorities wrong.  I was chasing rainbows. 

 

            Thanks again for the wonderful and enchanting experience.  I enjoyed it thoroughly.  I now feel in harmony with myself; don’t want to hide from myself.

 

  I shall always remember this wonderful encounter and cherish the simple joys of living.  As we made love to each other with our eyes, it appeared as if I had journeyed inwards to explore my true feelings and discover myself.  It has been an enjoyable romance – for this once. Let’s keep it that way.

 

            With love and best wishes,

                                                Rajashree.”

 

 

                        Sanjay felt jubilant.  Rajashree had fallen in love with him.  He rushed to find the woman who had given him the letter.  Rajashree was staying in the guesthouse – about a mile away.  Sanjay was tired, exhausted, but he walked his fastest mile to the guesthouse.  He saw Rajashree standing at the entrance, a suitcase beside her.  As she saw him, she blushed with surprise.  She felt like a prisoner being caught while escaping.

 

 “Where are you going?” he asked her.

 

            Rajashree had recovered enough to smile back, “I am going to Ooty to meet my daughter in boarding school – to bring her home.”

 

            “I am coming with you,” said Sanjay, and he took Rajashree in his arms held her tightly and whispered in her ear, “From now on, we shall make our journey together.”

 

FALLING IN LOVE

Short Fiction - A Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

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 educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, 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.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog - http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
Academic Journal Vikram Karve – http://karvediat.blogspot.com/
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve - http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

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