LOVE TORN APART
Fiction Short Story
One of my earliest fiction short stories set on the beautiful
Railway – for old times’ sake... Nilgiri Mountain
A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains up the
Blue Mountains on a breathtaking journey to beautiful Ooty, the Queen of Hill Stations.
On Lovedale railway station there is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, there is a solitary bench.
If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower.
In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in
. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a prestigious public school famous for its rich heritage and tradition of excellence. India
Lovedale, in 1970.
That is all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench.
It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometres ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woollen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. We can’t stay here any longer. No more excuses now.”
“Even I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold and I am old. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did before God took Daddy away.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after the house and all of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl.
The old lady closes her eyes in sadness. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves
station on its way to Ketti. Wellington
A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment.
There is no one else in the compartment.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“Told her before...? How...? When...?”
“You could have written, called her up. I told you so many times.”
“How can I be so cruel...?”
“Cruel...? What’s so cruel about it...?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“Baby! Why do you still call her Baby...? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her Baby...!”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“Well I don’t like it...! It’s childish, ridiculous...!” the man says firmly, “Anyway, all that we can sort out later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“You want me to tell both of them right now...? My mother-in-law also...? What will she feel...? She will be shocked...!”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“Stop saying ‘poor thing... poor thing’. She’ll be okay. She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do that matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. At least it will keep her occupied. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us...?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“It’s so sad. She was so good to me. Where will she go...? We can’t abandon her just like that...!”
“Abandon...? Nobody is abandoning her. Don’t worry. If she doesn’t want to stay on here, I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there – it’s an ideal place for senior citizens like her.”
“You want to me to put her in an Old-Age Home...?”
“Call it what you want but actually it’s quite a luxurious place. She’ll be happy there. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“I can’t be that cruel and heartless to my mother-in-law. She was so loving and good to me, treated me like her own daughter, and looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says, and starts sobbing.
“Come on Kavita. Don’t get sentimental,. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take your mother-in-law with us. And by the way, she is your ex-mother-in-law now."
"How can you say that...?"
"Come on, Kavita, don't get too sentimental...you must begin a new life now...there is no point carrying the baggage of your past...” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did mean it...! That’s why you said it...! I hate you, you are so cruel, mean and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence, an uneasy disquieting silence.
Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast lush green
with its undulating mountains in the distance. Ketti Valley
“Listen Kavita, I think I’ll also get down with you at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! I don’t even want them to see you. The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. Please don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you, Kavita. Make things easier for everyone. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll love me and understand everything.”
“No, please. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. She’s a very sensitive girl. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
The steam engine pushing the train huffs and puffs up the slope round the bend under the bridge. “Lovedale station is coming,” the woman says. She gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you to the school...?” asks the man.
“No. Not now. You go ahead to Ooty. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence, looking out of different windows, waiting for Lovedale railway station to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here in boarding school. I hate the cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC...”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come...! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home...”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will be all staying in Mumbai. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master of the forlorn Lovedale Railway Station strikes the bell outside his office.
The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left.
There is no one else on the platform.
And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30.
The girl runs into her arms.
The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile.
The man, sitting in the train, looks furtively, cautious not to be seen.
A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of Lovedale station towards Fern Hill tunnel on its way to Ooty – the end of the line.
That evening the small girl and her granny sit near the fireplace with the girl’s mother eating dinner and the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train which comes from Ooty and goes down to the plains – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man.
The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality.
The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste.
The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband.
They all stand in silence. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy...? You hate boarding school don’t you...? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school. I want to stay here.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny...? How will she stay here all alone...? No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let this man go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Damayant...i! I am your new father...!” the man says firmly to the girl.
And then the man turns to the young woman and he commands, “Kavita. Come. The train is going to leave.”
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be okay,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate... like manacles.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise...” the grandmother says fighting back her tears.
But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness, a void.
Poor old Lovedale Railway Station.
It wants to cry.
It tries to cry.
But it cannot even a shed a tear.
For it is not human.
So it suffers its sorrow in inanimate helplessness, powerless, hapless, a silent spectator, and a mute witness.
Yes, Lovedale helplessly watches love being torn apart.
Yes, Lovedale helplessly watches love being torn apart.
"Love being torn apart at Lovedale" - a pity, isn't it...?
Yes, a pity...real pity...!
LOVE TORN APART
Fiction Short Story
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
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