STRESS STRAIN TENSION - My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 52

My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 52

STRESS STRAIN TENSION

SECRET SORROW PUBLIC SHAME

Fiction Short Story

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

From my creative writing archives: A poignant tale I wrote a few years ago ...
 

As the sun begins to set, tension begins to rise in the Patwardhan household.   

Why?   

Because it’s time for Mr. Patwardhan to come home from work.   

Funny! Isn’t it?

Actually the family should be happy when the breadwinner returns home from work. They should be eagerly awaiting his arrival.   

You are right. That was how it used to be earlier. But now it’s different. 

Every evening is hell, a torturous ordeal, for the wife, daughter and son; as they anxiously wait for Mr. Patwardhan to come home.   

Why? 

What happened?   

It is sad. Very sad. Very very sad.

Every evening, after work, Mr. Patwardhan goes straight to a liquor bar, and comes home drunk. The way he is drinking now-a-days, it won’t be long before he becomes an alcoholic. Or maybe he already is an alcoholic.

Come with me Dear Reader, let’s go and see what happens tonight.  

Where?   

To the chawl tenement in Girgaum where Patwardhan lives. 

Look how it is built. Four storeys. Each floor has a common balcony for the row of ten one-room households. The balconies afford a good view of the entrance and the main road, so everyone stands there in the evening enjoying the happenings, the comings and goings – that’s the main source of entertainment here. And when it gets dark, they all go in and watch the soaps on cable TV.  

And now-a-days, the arrival of the totally sozzled intoxicated inebriated Mr. Patwardhan, his drunken antics, is the highlight amusement of the day, the event of the evening, eagerly awaited by all, yes, all, except the Patwardhan family who wait in frightful trepidation, wishing it would all be over fast. 

Look.  

Where?  

Look at the second floor balcony. Do you see two ladies standing in the centre of the balcony?  

Yes.   

The one on the left, in the red sari – she’s Mrs. Patwardhan.  

And the other?   

The other one in the blue sari is Mrs. Joshi. Mrs. Patwardhan’s neighbour. She is lucky. Her husband is doing well. He is sober, successful, and they have plenty of money. Her children are bright. They may even move out of this crowded chawl to a two BHK flat in Dombivli or Thane or Kalyan or some distant western suburb of Mumbai if all goes well.   

Let’s go and see what they are talking.   

“Where are your kids? I can’t see them playing below,” asks Mrs. Joshi.   

“Avinash is inside, studying. He’s become such an introvert. The boys jeer at him, taunt him, because of his father's drinking problem; so he’s stopped playing with them.”   

“It’s cruel!”   

“Yes. He’s become so silent. And his eyes! I’m scared of the hate in his eyes.”  

“It’ll be okay. Just give him time. At least he’s doing well in his studies.” 

“Yes. But I’m more worried about Radhika. She’s just 14, and behaves as if she were 18, or even 20. Poor thing. From a child, she has straight away become a mature woman, because of all this. It’s so sad; she must be suffering terribly inside,” Mrs. Patwardhan says as tears well up in her eyes.   

“Don’t cry,” Mrs. Joshi says, “everything will be all right.”   

Suddenly, there is a commotion.

Mr. Patwardhan has arrived.

As usual he is totally drunk, intoxicated to the hilt.

Swinging from side to side, he is so unsteady on his feet that he is barely able to walk.

He stumbles on first step of the staircase and falls down.

His daughter, Radhika, appears from nowhere and tries to lift him. 

Mrs. Patwardhan rushes down the staircase.

Soon, both mother and daughter haul the miserably drunk man up the staircase.   

Mrs. Joshi stands transfixed, not knowing what to do.

Her husband comes out of the house, looks at the scene, and mutters: “disgraceful” and takes Mrs. Joshi inside. 

Words cannot describe the emotion of shame, humiliation, helplessness and hapless anger, the inwardly burning impotent rage that Mrs. Patwardhan experiences at that moment.   

Now that the "event" is over, her tension dissolves, and though she still feels angry, with time, a few hours later, her anger also dissipates, and, her worries for the day over, Mrs. Patwardhan goes to sleep. 

The day is over.

Tomorrow is a new day.

She’ll be up in the morning, busy with her chores and work, and everything will be okay throughout the day. 

It is only in the evening, when the sun begins to set, and it is time for her husband to come home, that the tension will begin to rise within her once again.

Now, Mrs. Patwardhan sleeps like a log.  

Next door, Mrs. Joshi pretends she is fast asleep.

Though her eyes are closed, in her mind’s eye she can clearly visualize her husband’s surreptitiously silent movements as he ‘makes sure’ everyone is asleep, stealthily closes the door and sneaks out of the house in a furtive manner.   

And as she lies desolately on her barren bed in self-commiseration, feeling betrayed and overcome by a sense of helplessness, and deeply suffers her terrible sorrow in secret silence; there is just one thought perambulating in Mrs. Joshi's mind: “Her neighbour Mrs. Patwardhan is luckier than her. Her husband may be an alcoholic but at least he is faithful. It is better to be the wife of a drunkard than to be a wife of a womanizer - yes, there is nothing worse than having an unfaithful husband”. 

Mrs. Joshi thinks of Mrs. Patwardhan with envious sympathy. 

Mrs. Patwardhan has nothing to hide and can share her stigma with everyone. 

But Mrs. Joshi – she has to bear her grief all alone. And then, as the night advances, the tension begins to rise within her. 

Mrs. Joshi's tension will never dissipate; the stress, the strain, they will just keep on increasing till one day something will snap within her.     

The public shame the drunkard's wife Mrs. Patwardhan suffers is bad enough. Many make fun of her. Many humiliate her. But a few also sympathize with her.

It is the womanizers's wife Mrs. Joshi who we must really pity, as she suffers her private ignominy in secret. 

Every moment, Mrs. Joshi secretly dies a hundred deaths inside, unknown to the others, while she keeps up a façade, a pretence, wears a mask of make-believe, that everything is fine on the outside.

Is secret sorrow is worse than public shame?

Is the fear of your secret sorrow being found out more painful than the stigma of public humiliation?    

 

I wonder which is more painful: Secret Sorrow or Public Shame? But one thing is sure - they both cause a tremendous amount of stress, strain and tension.

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 this story?
I am sure you will like the stories in my recently published book COCKTAIL comprising twenty seven short stories about relationships. To order the book please click the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-karve.html

COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the link below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925

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 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.

 

THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE - A THURSDAY TO REMEMBER

THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE

A THURSDAY TO REMEMBER

My Very Own Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Today is Thursday.

Long back, maybe two years ago, I started writing a short story. 

I named the story THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE - A Thursday to Remember.

I don't know why, but I left this story unfinished.

A few moments ago, while browsing around, I suddenly discovered this unfinished love story and wondered what to do with it.

Well, my love may remain unrequited, but my love stories must be finished. 

So I am going to finish this love story and give it a nice happy feel good ending. 

Meanwhile, here is my unfinished love story, exactly as I wrote it long back, for you to read...

THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE - A THURSDAY TO REMEMBER

Part 1

  

Do you remember the happiest day of your life…?

I do…!

Here’s how it began…

“Excuse me,” a feminine voice said from behind me. 

I turned around.

“Mr. Avinash…?” she asked.

I stared blankly at the smart young woman, tongue-tied. 

“I’m Sheetal…” she said with a lovely smile.

“Oh, Hi…” I stammered, quickly gathering my wits.

I looked at her. 

Avinash had been terribly wrong. This was no podgy pedestrian suburban unpretentious behenji. She was a real beauty, chic, smart, a stunner, and I could not take my eyes off her.

Her eyes were extremely beautiful – enormous, dark, expressive eyes. 

And suddenly her eyes began to dance, and seeing my frank look of genuine admiration, she gave me smile so captivating that I experienced a delightful twinge in my heart.

“You are Mr. Avinash, aren’t you…?” she asked mischievously.

“Yes…” I lied, “How did you recognize me…?”

“You were the only person looking lost and out of place out here…the odd man out…” she laughed vivaciously.

“Oh…” I said unconsciously, mesmerized by her gorgeousness, and by instinct, and almost against my will, I let my eyes linger, travel all over her exquisite body.  

“Hey…are you going to stare at me all day or should we grab a bite…I am hungry…” she said playfully.

“Yes…yes…” I said.

“Okay…come…let’s go to Samovar…we can talk there in peace too…” she said, and led me from the art gallery to the restaurant in the veranda.

Thus began the happiest day of my life. 

Dear Reader, please permit me to tell you a little bit about how it all started and to tell you this story I am going to transport you backwards into the past, yes, we are going more than 30 years back in time, to the late 1970s, when Pune was a Pensioners’ Paradise.

Yes, my Dear Reader, Pune, the Queen of the Deccan, in the 1960s and 1970s, with its lovely climate, pure fresh air, lush green environs, salubrious, spacious and friendly laid back atmosphere, was indeed a “paradise” – Pune was indeed the best city to live in.

Imagine a Pune without Malls and the Multiplexes, with hardly any traffic on the roads, when the bicycle was the popular mode of travel; the nearest “city” was Mumbai and the best way of getting there was by the railways, by charming trains like the Deccan Queen, enjoying the scenic beauty of the lush green Sahayadri Ghats while savouring the delicious breakfast served by the restaurant car, since there was no expressway and it sometimes took six hours to drive down as the road through the Khandala Ghats was quite treacherous.

Just imagine – there were no mobile cell-phones, no internet, no PCs, no STD (one had to book trunk-calls and wait for hours for the call to materialise or else make expensive "lightening" calls). Black and White Television had just arrived and was a novelty which very few people had and everyone in the neighborhood barged in to see popular programmes like chitrahaar, chayyageet, or a cricket match. 

The main thing was that there was no internet, and hence no email, and one had to write letters and send them via post as there were no courier services either.

And of course, social interaction was face to face, relishing yummy bhel in the numerous picturesque parks, or over tea, in the Amruttulayas, Irani cafes and Kattas, as there was no facebook, no orkut, no chatting, no blogging, no cell phones, no blackberry, no SMS, no MMS, no twitter, nothing, and as I said, way back then, the concepts of “cyberspace” and mobile phones just did not exist…

Those days, a B. Tech. from an IIT did not get you a huge pay packet – yes, it sure ensured that you got a good job, but once you were in the job you were on par with the other guys from various Engineering Colleges. 

Yes, only guys did engineering then, maybe there were a few gals, the rare exceptions, but I hardly met any pursuing a career as an engineer, maybe most of them got married, or shifted to softer professions.

My IIT Classmate Avinash and I joined a premier engineering company located in the suburbs of Pune.

Well that was the trend at IITs those days – either you went abroad, to America, to pursue higher studies, or got a good job in the campus interview in a prestigious engineering firm, unless you were one of those few who preferred to be a white-collared manager via the MBA route (way back then there were hardly any management institutes, I think maybe there was just one IIM or maybe two, and FMS at Delhi and a Jamnalal Bajaj at Mumbai).

But the majority of engineers studied engineering to practice engineering, so we were quite happy to hit the shop floor doing hard core engineering.

We worked hard, for six days a week including Sundays, and had our off on Thursdays – the industrial holiday.

We rented a house near Deccan Gymkhana from where we commuted to work and back by the company bus.

Life was good. 

It was easy to be happy. 

Our threshold of happiness was so low that small things made us happy. Yes, simple things like a relaxed chat over a cup of tea made you happy.

I can never forget those happy moments. Yes, every evening after work, we would get down from the bus, relax over a Bun Maska and Chai at Café Good Luck or Lucky, and then walk down to our place on Bhandarkar Road nearby.

One of our most enjoyable highlights was our weekly Thursday visit to Pune Camp – to see the latest Hollywood Movie in royal style relaxing on those unique easy chairs at the inimitable West End Cinema, relishing tasty mouth-watering bites and soothing thirst-quenching sips at the Soda Fountain during the interval, followed by delectable Mutton Samosas, Bun Maska and refreshing Irani style Chai at Naaz, then a leisurely stroll on Main Street [MG Road] and East Street, window-shopping, bird-watching and snacking, sandwiches and cold coffee at Marz-o-rin, maybe a browse at Manney’s bookstore, and then a hearty Chinese meal at Kamling or Chung Fa, or a Mughlai repast at Latif, or Punjabi Food at Kwality, Biryani at Dorabjee or George, or Sizzlers at The Place [arguably the first Sizzler Place in India] next to Manney’s. And then a Meetha Masala Pan at George to carry home the lingering flavour and fragrance of the delightful evening.

When there are two close friends, one assumes the role of a leader and the other a follower. 

Amongst the two of us, Avinash, a tall, strapping, confident, flamboyant, handsome man endowed with an excellent physique with a dominating personality, was the natural leader. 

“Shekhar,” Avinash said to me one Wednesday evening while we were sipping chai at Good Luck cafe in Deccan, “Please Shekhar…I want you to do me a favour…”

“What…”? I asked.

“Go down to Mumbai tomorrow and see a girl in my place…” he said.

"See a girl...?" I looked at him, confused.

“It’s like this yaar…there is some behenji type girl from my place my parents want me to see…she is working in Mumbai…I am least interested… so you go and see her and come back…and I’ll tell my parents I didn’t like her…” he said.

“But why don’t you go and meet her…?” I asked.

“Listen yaar…I’ve managed to patao a solid cheez… I met her during that management seminar I had gone for last week…” he said.

“But you didn’t tell me…” I said.

“Arre Bhai…kuch hone to do…but uske liye you’ll have to help me out…I’ve fixed up a solid date with her tomorrow taking her for a drive on my bike around Lonavala and Khandala…we planned it during the seminar…and suddenly my mom rang up in the office this morning... please yaarShekhar …just go to Mumbai tomorrow and see the girl…” Avinash said.

“But how…?” I protested.

“I have already booked your ticket both ways by Deccan Queen…just go in the morning and come back in the evening…this back-home-type is called Sheetal and she will meet you in the Jehangir Art Gallery at eleven…”

“But how can I masquerade as you…she must be having your photo…I’ll get caught…” I said.

“There is no photo, nothing…she doesn’t know how I look like and I don’t know how she looks like...it all happened so suddenly…just our parents got talking back home last evening and my mother rang up this morning to go and see the girl tomorrow as the girl is going back to her hometown in the mofussil near our place by tomorrow evening’s train…” he said.

“No…No…I am not going…the whole thing is preposterous…I can’t do this…” I protested.

“Yaar please…don’t ditch me…I have already sent her a telegram to meet at 11 AM in Jehangir Art Gallery…” he said.

“I don’t understand all this…” I said.

“My mother said her office is in Kalaghoda…so this is the nearest and best place…there in Mumbai they work on Thursdays… only we here in Pune have industrial off on Thursdays…so they fixed up tomorrow…as she has to leave for her place in the evening on holiday…don’t argue…just get it over with…after you come back I’ll ring up  my mom tomorrow evening and tell her I didn’t like the girl and the whole thing is a closed chapter…” Avinash said. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and pleaded, “Please Shekhar...I have to go for this Lonavala date...it's a solid opportunity...I promise you Shekhar... agar woh pat gayee...if things work out and my Lonavala romance succeeds... I’ll give you a big treat…”

So, for the sake of friendship, early next morning I boarded the Deccan Queen to Mumbai masquerading as Avinash for my rendezvous with Sheetal….

To be continued ...

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 this story?
I am sure you will like the stories in my recently published book COCKTAIL comprising twenty seven short stories about relationships. To order the book please click the links below:
http://www.flipkart.com/cocktail-vikram-karve-short-stories-book-8191091844?affid=nme
http://www.indiaplaza.in/cocktail-vikram-karve/books/9788191091847.htm
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/short-stories/cocktail-by-vikram-karve.html

COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the link below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925

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 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.