Tuesday, May 19, 2015


Link to my post in my Academic and Creative Writing Journal: 

I wrote this story 9 years ago, in the year 2007, and first posted it online on my creative writing blog in 2008 - here is the link: 

This Story also features in my book COCKTAIL - my anthology of short stories about relationships published in 2011.

Read on ->

A Long Short Story in Seven Parts 
Short Fiction 


I am sure you have heard the term “win-win” situation.

But have you heard of “lose-lose” situation.

Here is one of my fiction short stories which depicts a lose-lose situation.

Or does it?

Does the story convey the message I wanted to convey?

I really don’t know. 

You tell me the message you got from this story.

Dear Reader, do tell me your views.

Can such lose-lose situations be avoided?

Read on. 

Take your time.

It is a longish story – so if you want, you can read it in parts too. 

Recently I heard in the news that they are trying to make divorce easier. 

Is it really a good idea to make divorce easy and encourage it?

Everyone sympathises with the woman in a divorce.

But what about the man – and the children – does anybody care about them?

Do enjoy the story.

I look forward to your comments and feedback.

(Fiction Short Story by Vikram Karve) 


“I’m going,” the man says.
“Don’t go. Please don’t go,” the woman says.
“Don’t go? What do you mean don’t go? You know I have to go.”
“You don’t have to go. You know you don’t have to go. Please. Please. Please don’t go. I beg you. Please don’t go!”
“Come on, Hema, be reasonable, and try to understand. You know I have to go. I promised him I would be there for his school’s Annual Day…”
“No, Ashok, No. You don’t go. His mother can go. He is staying with her, isn’t it? Let her look after him…”
“And I am his father!” the man says firmly, “I promised Varun I’ll be there and I have to be there!”
“You don’t love me! You still love them!”
“You know how much I love you, Hema,” the man says taking the woman in his arms, “But I love my son too. I have to go. Please don’t make it difficult for me…”
Tears begin to well up in the man’s eyes. The woman snuggles her face against his neck and grips him tightly.
“I’m scared,” she sobs.
“Scared? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s the first time you are going to her after you two split…”
“Please, Hema. I am not going to her. I’m going to meet my son, for his school’s annual day, because Varun rang me up and made me promise that I would be there to see his performance on stage. I’ll meet Varun, attend the PTA meeting, I’ll talk to his teacher, see the concert and come straight back to you. I won’t even talk to Pooja, I promise,” the man called Ashok says to the woman nestling in his arms, “Don’t worry, Hema. You know it’s all over between Pooja and me, isn’t it? Maybe she won’t even come to the PTA meeting if she knows I’m coming, and even if she’s there I’m sure she too will avoid me as far as possible.”
The woman takes his hand, gently places it on her stomach, and whispers in the man’s ears, “Soon we will have our own son.”
“Yes,” the man says lovingly, caressing her stomach tenderly with his soft hand, “a son, and a daughter, whatever you want.”
They disentangle, then he holds her once more, pushes his face into her warm mouth, kisses her lovingly, and says, “Don’t worry, I’m all yours, and I promise I’ll be right back as fast as possible.”
A few moments later, the man sits in his car, wipes his face fresh with a cologne-scented tissue, starts the car, and drives off.
“My Daddy has come, my Daddy has come,” a boy shouts gleefully to his friends and rushes towards his father as he enters the school gate.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” the boy says delightedly and jumps into his father’s arms.
“Hey, Varun, you look so good in your school uniform,” the man says picking up and lovingly kissing his son on the cheek. Seeing his son’s genuine happiness and rapturous delight, the man feels glad that he has come. He warmly hugs his son and then gently sets him down.
“Come fast, Daddy,” the boy tugs at his father’s sleeve, “everyone is sitting in the class.”
“Mummy’s come?” the man asks cautiously.
“Yes, Yes, Daddy,” the boy says gleefully, “She’s sitting in the class, waiting for you.”
They, father and son, walk to the classroom, and at the door the man pauses, looks around, sees the mother of his son sitting alone on a bench on the other side of the classroom, so he begins to sit at the bench nearest to the door.
“No, No, Daddy, not here. Mummies and Daddies have to sit together,” the boy says doggedly, and pulls the man towards the woman, who is the boy’s mother.
As he walks towards her, the man looks at the woman, on paper still his wife. As he approaches, she looks up at him and gives him a smile of forced geniality. 
The boy rushes to his mother and exclaims exultantly, “See Mummy, Daddy has come; I told you he will come!”
The man and the woman contrive courteous smiles and exchange a few amiable words for the sake of their son, and for public show. It’s the first time the man, the woman, and their son are together as a family since they split a few months ago.
“Come on Mummy, make place for Daddy,” the boy says prodding his mother, and nudging his father onto the bench, and squeezing himself in between. The school double-bench is small, meant for two children, and for the three of them it’s a tight fit. His wife stares ahead, as he looks askance at her, over the head of their son, their common blood, who has connected them forever, whether they like it or not.
The man looks around the classroom. Happiest are the children whose both parents have come. Then there are those kids whose only one parent, mostly the mother, has come. And sitting lonely and forlorn, in the last row, are those unfortunate children for whom no one has come, no mother, no father, no one. It’s a pity, really sad. Parents matter a lot especially in boarding school, and the man feels sorry for the lonesome unlucky children.
The Class-Teacher, an elegant woman, probably in her thirties, briskly walks in, and instinctively everyone rises.
“Please be seated,” she says, and seats herself on the chair behind a table on the podium facing the class. The Class-Teacher explains the procedure for the PTA meeting – she’ll call out, one by one, in order of merit, the students’ names, who’ll collect their first term report card, show it to their parents, and then run off to the concert hall, while the parents discuss their child’s progress with the teacher, one by one.
“Varun Vaidya!” the teacher calls out the first name, and Varun squeezes out between his father’s legs and runs towards the teacher, the man is overwhelmed with pride as he realizes that his son has stood first in his class.
He swells with affection when Varun, his son, gleefully gives the report card to him, and as he opens it, he can sense the sensuous proximity of his wife’s body and smell the enchanting fragrance of her fruity perfume, as she unwittingly comes close to eagerly look at the report card, and he quivers with the spark of intimacy and feels the beginnings of the familiar stirrings within him. 
Ashok realizes that their physical proximity, the intimacy, the touch of skin, has rekindled amorous memories and roused dormant desires in Pooja too, for she suddenly draws away from him and blushes in embarrassment. He wonders how people can suddenly cease to love a person they have once passionately loved so much and still desire.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya,” the teacher’s mellifluous voice jerks him from his reverie. He looks up at the charming young lady who has walked up to their desk and is lovingly ruffling Varun’s hair.
“Good Morning, Ma’am,” he says.
“Call me Nalini,” she says with a lovely smile, “Varun is really intelligent.”
“Like my Daddy– do you know he’s from IIT?”  The boy proudly tells his teacher.
“And your Mummy?” the teacher playfully asks the boy.
“She is also a genius. But only in computers – she is an IT pro, you know. But my daddy is real good, he knows everything,” the boy says, and the teacher laughs, turns to Varun and says, “You go run along to the hall and get ready for the concert.”
“I’m Muriel. Muriel the goat!” says Varun animatedly, and runs away.
“We are enacting a skit from George Orwell’s Animal Farm,” Varun’s teacher says, “You are very fortunate Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. Varun is a very gifted child. He comes first in class and is so talented in extracurricular activities and good in sports too. You must be really proud of him.”
“Oh yes, we are really proud of him,” the man says, and notices that the attractive teacher looks into his eyes for that moment longer than polite courtesy. He averts his eyes towards his wife and her disdainful expression tells him that his wife has observed this too.
He feels his cell-phone silently vibrating in his pocket, excuses himself, and goes out of the classroom into the corridor outside.
“Yes, Hema,” he says softly into his mobile.
“Is it over?”
“We’ve got the report card. There’s a concert now.”
“Concert? The PTA is over, isn’t it? You come back now. There is no need to go to the concert.”
“Please, Hema. I have to go to the school concert. Varun is acting – playing an important part – I promised him I would be there to cheer him.”
“Promised him? What about the promise you made to me – that you would be back as soon as possible and then we’d go to the disc.”
“Of course we’re going out this evening. I’ll start straight after the concert and be with you in the afternoon, latest by four, for tea.”
“I’ll get your favourite pineapple pastries and patties from Gaylord.”
“You do that. And spend some time on Fashion Street and browsing books…” the man sees his wife come out of the classroom and walk towards him, so he hurriedly says, “Bye Hema, I’ve got to go now.”
“You be here by four, promise…”
“Of course, darling. I Promise,” he says and disconnects.
“The bank manager…” he tries to explain the call to his wife, but she isn’t interested and says, “The Headmaster wants to meet us.”
“Headmaster? Meet us? Why?”
“How should I know?” his wife Pooja says coldly.
Soon they are sitting in the regal office front of the distinguished looking Headmaster who welcomes them, “Your son has settled down very well in his first term, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. In fact, Varun is our youngest boarder in the hostel. He’s brilliant in academics, proficient in all activities, sports, outdoors – a good all-rounder. ”
They nod, and the father’s chest swells with pride.
“Pardon me for being personal,” the Headmaster says, “I was wondering why you have sent such a young boy to boarding school? Especially when you live nearby in the same city.”
“I have shifted to Mumbai now.” Ashok says.
“Oh, I see. And you too, ma’am?”
“No,” Pooja answers, “I still live in Pune.”
“Aundh, isn’t it? The same address you’ve given us in the admission form?” the Headmaster says glancing at a paper in front of him.
“Yes. I stay in Aundh.”
“We’ve got a school bus coming from Aundh. If you want your son can be a day-scholar…”
“Thank you, Sir, but I have kept him in boarding as I work night shifts.”
“Night Shifts?”

“I work in ITES?”
“Information Technology Enabled Services.”
“She works in a call centre,” Ashok interjects.
“I’m in a senior position in a BPO,” she retorts haughtily.
“Oh! That’s good,” the Headmaster says, and looks at both of them as if signalling the end of the interview.
“Sir…” Ashok hesitates.
“Yes? Please feel free Mr. Vaidya,” the Headmaster says.
“Sir, I thought I must tell you, we are separated.”
“How much does the boy know?” the Headmaster asks Pooja.
“He knows. We try to be honest with him. We’ve just told him that since his father is in Mumbai and since I’ve to work night shifts, boarding school is the best for him,” Pooja says.
The Headmaster ponders and then says, “It may seem presumptuous of me to give you unsolicited advice, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya, but why don’t you try and patch up? At least for your boy’s sake, he’s so young and loving. At such a tender age children must continue to feel they are a part of a family. They need to feel loved, to belong and to be valued. I know how much your son loves you both. He’s so proud of his parents.”
“We’ll try,” Ashok says, and looks at his wife.

The Headmaster is telling them to  patch up and come back together – for Varun’s sake.

Ashok knows it is out of the question. 

Their relationship had become so suffocating, so demoralized by distrust, that it was better to break up than try to patch up. 

And now, in his life, there is Hema …
“We’ll try and work it out,” he hears his wife’s voice.
“I am sure you will – for your son’s sake. Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. I’m sure you’ll love to see your son’s acting skills in the concert,” the Headmaster says and rises, indicating that the interview is over.
Later, sitting in the auditorium, they watch their son enact the role of Muriel, the know-it-all Goat, in a scene adapted from Animal Farm, and Ashok’s heart swells with pride as he watches his son smartly enunciate the seven commandments with perfect diction.
After the concert, they stand outside, waiting for Varun, to take off his make-up and costume and join them. Ashok looks at his watch. It’s almost one, and he wonders whether he should stay for the parents’ lunch, or leave for Mumbai to make it on time by four after the three hour drive.
“You look as if you’re in a hurry,” his wife says.
“I’ve an appointment at four. He called up in the morning, remember, the bank manager…” he lies.
“Nariman Point.”
“Then why don’t you go now? You’ll barely make it.”
“I’m waiting for Varun.”
“Doesn't matter. You go. I’ll tell him.”
He tries to control the anger rising within him and says firmly, “Listen, Pooja. Don’t try to eradicate me from your lives, at least from my son’s life.”
“I wish I could! Please Ashok, leave us alone. I didn’t ask you to come all the way from Mumbai today – I would have handled the PTA alone.”
“Varun rang me up. Made me promise I’d be here. I’m glad I came. He’s so happy, especially so delighted that I came to see him in the concert.”
“I’ll tell him not to disturb you in future.”
“No you don’t,” Ashok said firmly, “Varun is my son as much as yours.”
They stand in silence, a grotesque silence, and then he says, “I didn’t come only for Varun. I came to see you too!”
“See me?” the woman’s face is filled with ridicule, contempt and astonishment at the same time.
Suddenly they see Varun prancing in delight towards them and they put on smiles on their faces.
“You liked the concert?” he asks breathless.
“I loved your part. You were too good – isn’t it Mummy?” the man says.
“Yes. Varun is the best,” the woman says bending down and kissing her son on the cheek. Then she says, “Varun, Daddy has to go now. He has important work in Mumbai.”
“No,” protests Varun, and looks at his father and says, “No! No! No! First, we’ll all have lunch. And then the school fete.”
“School Fete?” they say in unison, and then the man says, “You didn’t tell me!”
“Surprise! Surprise! But Mummy, Daddy, we all have to go to the fete and enjoy.”
So they have lunch and go to the sports ground for the school fete – merry-go-round, roller-coaster, hoopla, games of skill and eats – they enjoy themselves thoroughly. Time flies. To the outside observer they seem to be the happiest family.
On the Giant Wheel Ashok and Pooja instinctively sit on different seats. Suddenly Ashok notices that his son looks hesitant, wary, confused, undecided as to which parent he should go to, sensing that he couldn’t choose one without displeasing the other. So Ashok quickly gets up and sits next to Pooja, and a visibly delighted Varun runs and jumps in between them.
As he gets off the giant wheel, Ashok notices his mobile ringing. He detaches himself from his son, looks at the caller id and speaks, “Yes. Hema.”
“What ‘Yes Hema’. Why aren’t you picking up the phone? Where are you? Have you crossed Chembur? I’ve been calling for the last five minutes – just see the missed calls.”
“I was on the Giant Wheel.”
“Giant Wheel?”
“We are at the school fete.”
“School Fete? You are still in Pune? You told me you’d be here by four!”
“I couldn't help it. Varun was adamant. He didn’t let me go.”
“She’s there with you?”
“She...! You Stupid ... She...! Your ex-wife. Is she there with you?”
“You simpleton, can’t you see? She’s trying to get you back through your son!” Hema pauses, takes a breath, and pleads, “Ashok, you do one thing, just say good-bye to them and come back straight to me. Please. Please. Please. Don’t be with her. Please. Please…”
“Okay,” the man says and cuts off the cell-phone. Then he switches off his mobile.
“Daddy, Daddy, who was that?” the boy asks.
“Someone from the office,” the man says. He thinks for a moment, looks at his son, bends down and says, “Listen, Varun. I’ve got to get back to the office fast. Mummy will stay with you – be a good boy.”
“No, No, No! It’s only three o’clock . We can stay out till eight…” The boy sees his housemaster nearby and runs to him, “Sir, Sir, My Daddy has come all the way from Mumbai. Please can he take me out for dinner?”
“Of course you can go, Varun,” the kindly housemaster says to the boy, then looks at Ashok and says, “It’s the first time you’ve come, isn’t it? Okay, we’ll give Varun a night-out. Why don’t you take him home and drop him back tomorrow evening by six? Tomorrow is declared a holiday anyway!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” shouts an ecstatic Varun is delirious delight, “Let’s go to the dormitory, collect my stuff, and go out. I want to see a Movie, and then we’ll all go home.”

So they, father, mother, and son, see a movie at the multiplex, then have a good time strolling and snacking on Main Street, and by the time they reach their home in Aundh it’s already seven in the evening.
Ashok stops his car below his erstwhile home in Aundh, where Pooja lives all by herself now.
“Okay, Varun, come give me a kiss and be a good boy.”
“No, Daddy, you’re not going from below. Let’s go up and have dinner. And then we’ll all sleep together and you go tomorrow morning.”
“Please, Varun, I have to go now,” the man says.
The boy looks at him, distraught, and the man gives a beseeching look to the woman, who smiles and says, “Okay. Come up and have a drink. You can take your books too – I’ve packed them for you.”
“Yea!” the boy exclaims in glee.
His wife’s invitation, the warming of her emotions, confuses and frightens him. He thinks of Hema waiting for him in Mumbai, what state she’d be in, frantically trying to reach him on his switched off cell-phone, feels a ominous sense of foreboding and tremors of trepidation. He is apprehensive, at the same time curious, and his son tugs at his shirt, so he goes up with them.
“I’ll freshen up and come,” the woman says to the man, “Make a drink for yourself – everything is in the same place.”
Varun, back home after three months, rushes into his room to see his things.
He opens the sideboard. The whiskey bottle is still there, exactly in the same place, but he notices the bottle is half empty. It was almost full when he had left – maybe she’s started having an occasional drink!
He sets everything on the dining table, and when she comes out, he picks up the whiskey bottle and asks her, “Shall I make you drink?”
“Me? Whiskey? You know I don’t touch alcohol, don’t you?” she says aghast.
“Sorry. Just asked…”
“You want soda? I’ll ring up the store to send it up.”
“I’ll have it with water.”
“Okay. Help yourself. I’ll quickly make you your favorite onion pakoras and fry some papads.”
He looks warmly at her, with nostalgia, and she looks back at him in the same way and goes into the kitchen.
Varun comes running out and soon he sits on the sofa, sipping his drink, cuddling his son sitting beside him, and they, father and son, watch TV together, and soon his son’s mother brings out the delicious snacks and they, the full family, all sit together and have a good time.
Her cell-phone rings, she takes it out of her purse, looks at the screen, excuses herself, goes into her bedroom, closes the door, takes the call, and says, “Hi, Pramod.”
“What the hell is going on out there…?” Pramod’s angry voice booms through the wireless airways all the way from Delhi.
“Please Pramod, speak softly. There is someone here.”
“I know he is there,” Pramod shouts, “What’s wrong with you? I leave you alone for a few days and you invite him into your home.”
“Listen, Pramod, don’t get angry. Try to understand. He came for Varun’s Annual Day.”
“But what is he doing there in your house right now so late at night?”
“He’s come to drop Varun.”
“Drop Varun?”
“He’d taken him out from school for a movie…”
“Why did you let him?”
“What do you mean ‘Why did you let him?’ – Ashok is Varun’s father.”
“You shouldn’t have called him to Pune…”
“I didn’t call him – Varun rang him up and told him to be there for his School’s Annual Day.”
“Anyway, get rid of him fast. I told you that you two are supposed to stay separate for at least six months.”
“Please Pramod. We are living separately. He’s just dropped in on a visit – we are not cohabiting or anything.”
“Just stay away from him – he could cause trouble!”
“Trouble? What are you saying, Pramod? He’s just come to drop Varun.”
“Pooja, can’t you see? He’s using your son to get you back. He’s a nasty chap – he may even withdraw his mutual consent and then we’ll be back at square one.”
“Pramod, don’t imagine things. And please Pramod, we had our differences, but Ashok was never a nasty person. Just get the papers ready and I’ll get him to sign on the dotted line,” she pauses for a moment and asks angrily, “And tell me Pramod, who told you Ashok is here?”
“That doesn’t matter. Now you are mine. I have to look after you, your welfare.”
“Look after my welfare? You’re keeping tabs on me, Pramod?” Pooja says irately.
“Now, you listen to me Pooja. Just throw him out right now. He has no right to trespass…” Pramod orders her.
“Trespass? Pramod, remember this is his house too – in fact the house is still on his name.”
“Don’t argue!” Pramod commands peremptorily, “Just do what I say!”
A flood of fury rises inside Pooja and she snaps angrily, “You know why I split up with Ashok, don’t you? Because I felt suffocated in that relationship. And now you are doing the same thing!”
Tears well up in her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, her throat chokes, she breaks down and she begins to sob.
“I’m sorry, Pooja. Please don’t cry,” Pramod pleads, “You know how much I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I’ll cut short my trip and be with you in Pune tomorrow evening.”
“It’s okay, finish your work first and then come.”
“Give Varun my love.”
“Okay, take care.”
“You also take care,” Pramod says and disconnects.
She stares into the darkness, at the sky, the stars in the distance and tries to compose herself.
In a while, Pooja comes into the drawing room. Ashok looks at her face. After her tears, her eyes shine in the bright light; the moisture from her unwiped tears solidified on her cheeks like dry glass.
“I’ll make us some dinner,” she says to him, “Let’s eat together.”
Totally taken aback, confused and startled, Ashok looks at his wife and says, “Thanks. But I’ve got to go.”
“Stay, Daddy! Please Stay,” pleads Varun.
“Daddy is staying for dinner,” Pooja says with mock firmness, and then looking at Ashok says, “Please. Stay. Have dinner with us. By the time you get back your cafeteria would have closed. You still stay in the bachelor’s hostel don’t you?”
“Yes,” he lies, “But I’ll be moving into flat soon.”
“That’s good. Where?”
“Churchgate. Near the office,” he says. Now that is not entirely untrue. Hema, with whom he has moved in, does indeed live near Churchgate!
“Churchgate! Wow! That’s really good for you. Food, Books, Films, Theatre, Art, Walks on Marine Drive – everything you like is nearby,” she says, “And Hey, now that you’re moving into a flat please take all your books. I’ve packed them up and kept them in the study.”
“Come Daddy, I’ll show you,” Varun jumps and pulls him into the study.
He looks around his former study and sees his books packed in cardboard boxes on the floor. The room has changed; except for his books there is nothing of him left in it.
He opens the wardrobe. There are some men’s clothes and a pair of shoes he has not seen before.
He is tempted to ask his son, but doesn’t ask. Varun has also come home after a three month spell, his first stint at boarding school.
He takes a towel, closes the cupboard, and goes into the bathroom to freshen up. The moment he comes out his son excitedly says, “Come Daddy, let’s help Mummy with the cooking.”
So they go to the kitchen and cook together – like they sometimes did in happier times.
Later they sit in their usual places at the small round dining table for dinner. It is the first time he, his wife and their son eat a meal together as a family since they had split three months ago. It is a happy meal, with much banter, primarily due the sheer joyfulness of their son, who is so happy that they are all together after a hiatus.
Then they sit together on the sofa, father, son, and mother, and watch her favorite soap on TV. Ashok notices how happy, natural and relaxed they all are. It is almost as if they have resumed living their old life once again. 
Suddenly, Ashok remembers Hema, waiting for him in Mumbai, and says, “I’ve got to go”
“Stay here Daddy, please,” his son implores, tugging at his shirt.
“It’s late. Let Daddy go,” Pooja says to Varun, “Daddy will come to meet you in school soon.”
“He can’t. Parents are not allowed till the next term break. Please Mummy, let us all sleep here and tomorrow we can all go away,” Varun says emphatically to his mother, and pulls his father towards the bedroom, “Come Daddy, let’s all sleep in Mummy’s bed like before.”
“No, Varun, I have to go,” Ashok says with a lump in his throat, disentangles his hands, bends down, and kisses his son, “Varun, be a good boy. I’ll be back to see you soon.”
At the door he turns around and looks at Pooja, his ex-wife, and says, “Bye. Thanks. Take Care.”
“It’s good you came to see your son,” she remarks.
“I didn’t come only for the child,” he says overwhelmed by emotion, “I came to see you too.”
He sees tears start in her eyes, so he quickly turns and walks out of the door.

The clock on Rajabai Tower is striking midnight as he parks his car below Hema’s flat. The lights are still on. He runs up the steps to the house and opens the door with his latchkey.
Hema is sitting on the sofa watching TV. She switches of the TV, rushes towards him and passionately kisses him. He kisses her back and recognizes the intoxicating sweet aroma of rum on her breath.
“You’ve been drinking. It’s not good for you,” he says.
“Promise me you will never go to there again,” she cries inconsolably, holding him tightly.
“Please, Hema. Try to understand. I don’t want to be eradicated from my son’s life.”
“No, Ashok. You promise me right now. You’ll never go there again. I don’t want you to ever meet them again.”
“But why?”
“I am in constant fear that you will leave me and go back to them. I’ve been dumped once and I don’t want to be ditched again, to be left high and dry,” 

Hema starts to weep, “I’m scared Ashok. I am really very frightened to be all alone, again!”
“Okay, Hema,” Ashok says gathering her in his arms, “I promise. I promise I’ll never go there again.”
“Kiss me,” Hema says.
He kisses her warm mouth, tastes the salty remains of her tears, which trickle down her cheeks onto her lips.
“Come,” she says, “it’s late. Let’s sleep.”
Ashok doesn’t have a dreamless sleep – he sees a dream – a dream he will never forget. 

He is drowning, struggling in the menacing dark fiery turbulent sea.

To his left – in the distance he sees Varun, his son, standing on a ship beckoning him desperately – and to his right – far away, standing on a desolate rock jutting out into the sea he sees Hema, his newfound love, waving, gesturing and calling him frantically.

Floods of conflicting emotions overwhelm him. 

In his dream – Ashok looks at his Varun – then he looks at Hema – and he finds himself imprisoned between the two.

His strength collapses, his spirit yields, and slowly he drowns, helplessly watching the terrifying angry black sea swallow him up and suck his body deep within into the Davy Jones’s Locker.
Jolted awake by the strange scary nightmare, Ashok breaks into cold sweat with a terrible fear. 

Ashok cannot sleep. 

He starts to think of his innocent adorable son Varun, imagining him sleeping soundly in his bed in Pune. 

The father in him agonizingly yearns and excruciatingly pines for his son, the pain in his heart becomes unbearable, and he wishes he could go right now, at this very moment, lovingly take his son in his arms and kiss his son goodnight, like he used to do.

He clearly recalls Varun’s words when he heard that his parents were going to split up and divorce.

Varun had said: “I don’t like it…” – and then the small boy began to cry.

He remembers the phone call Pooja did not want to take in his presence – maybe there is a new man in Pooja’s life. 

Pooja hasn’t told him anything about her new boyfriend – but then Ashok hasn’t told Pooja about Hema either.

And suppose Pooja remarries – then that guy would become Varun’s stepfather.

“Step-father…!” he shudders. 


If Pooja remarries he will get Varun to stay here with him.

Then he looks at his newfound love Hema, sleeping calmly beside him, and the beautiful serene expression on her pristine face. He gently places his hand on her forehead and lovingly caresses her hair. She warmly snuggles up to him, turns, puts her hand over his chest, and with a heightened sense of security continues her tranquil blissful sleep.

Will Hema accept Varun? 

No way! 

He remembers her tantrums in the morning, her insecurities – Hema is fearful that the “baggage” of his past, the “debris” of his broken marriage, will destroy their new relationship. 

A flood of emotion overwhelms him as he thinks about Hema. 

Poor thing. 

She’s just recovered from a terrible break up, and is holding on to him so tight – apprehensive, anxious, insecure...

Torn between his past and future – between the conflicting forces of his love for son and his love for the woman beside him – Ashok feels helpless and scared.

Ashok knows he has lost Pooja, his wife, forever.

Now he does not want to lose both his son Varun and his newfound love Hema.

Varun and Hema are the only two things he has in this world.

Ashok does wants both of them.

And he knows can’t have both of them together.

His life is a mess. 

Maybe he is responsible.

If only he had tried harder?

If only he had stayed on with Pooja in that suffocating relationship?

If only they had made more efforts to save their marriage, just for Varun’s sake.

If only he had...?

If only...? 

If only...?

It is of no use. 

One cannot go back in time and undo what has been done.

The more he thinks about it, the more helpless and hapless he feels, and soon his mind, his brain, starts spinning like a whirlwind.

In the whirlwind he sees all of them, Varun, Pooja and a new unknown face, Hema and himself, all of them being tossed around in disarray.

There is nothing Ashok can do about it – so he breaks down and begins to cry.

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

I wrote this story 9 years ago, in the year 2007, and first posted it online on my creative writing blog in 2008 - and reposted the story a few times on popular demand - here are the links: 

Link to my original posts in my Academic and Creative Writing Journal: 

This Story also features in my book COCKTAIL - my anthology of short stories about relationships published in 2011.

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