So, Twitter is a great thing for writers… all kinds of interesting things float by — and there are all kinds of articles too that other writers are posting all of the time as well as little literary quotes and things…

Also, I was looking at this this morning and it’s a very funny video.

http://misssnarksfirstvictim.blogspot.com/

here is the orig!

http://misssnark.blogspot.com/

Last night I was watching that movie Three Men and a Baby — but then switched over to Portrait of Dorian Grey — somehow there was an ad on for a hamburger place and they were actually using all sorts of things related to that whole Twilight movie…

And I thought, hmmm….

One of the literary agents I met at the conference I go to does that sort of thing, too.

Anyway on that note, following what this guy has to say on all that, off Twitter…

And, will be making soup today at some point.

I decided to post the book live in WordPress — so far, so good!  I changed the theme to a really cute one that has hearts and flowers too — that is the demographic it is for, and the WordPress template is just perfect.

So, I decided two pages a day for that blog?  Rather than one because, one wasn’t enough and I also decided to just edit the first post — when I add the pages.  Probably when I get to each chapter I will make a new post.  As I wrote the novel I pretty much had a chapter each day — so there are plenty of breaks.  Often I would pick up a theme from the previous day and just write to that — while I was doing NaNoWriMo.  It really worked well, I thought as a method for keeping the book in order — and it will be something I use for future novels too.

So, part of the mystique behind the novel I wrote is to teach kids about keeping journals.  I actually had my main character Teenie Alexander use a Waterman pen, and a little paper journal…

I use one — and they are the BEST!

and the journal that she writes in looks like these…

I was thinking of one that I used last year that is covered with a wisteria vine…

I like to use these too…

And, I get them at my favorite independent bookstore here in town!

I love books.

Umm, hmm….

I love books, beautiful little journals, Waterman pens, crayolas and Chronicle Books!

xxoo!

Something smells awful. Is it the rotting, bloated whales a neighboring ship has chained to her sides? Is it the unscrupulous deceit with which Stubb tricks the captain of the neighboring ship into giving him a valuable, though rotting, whale? Or is it simply all the smelly Frenchmen on board this ship, along with their cologne-making captain?

These are the circumstances with which we meet the Rose-bud, a French whaling vessel almost as incompetent as the German vessel we met a few chapters earlier. Unlike the German ship, whose crew furiously chased whales but couldn’t apprehend them, the Rose-bud has chosen to scavenge for whales already dead in the water. Ishmael identifies both of the whales found by the Rose-bud as “blasted” whales, or whales which have “died unmolested on the sea.” Despite all evidence to support Ishmael’s assessment, Stubb insists that one of the whales in question was harpooned and drugged by the Pequod in an earlier chase and, though lost to them at the time, should not belong to the scavenging Frenchmen. Identifying the other scavenged whale as potentially containing valuable ambergris, Stubb plots his revenge.* Though played out as humorous, the trick Stubb plays on the French captain, with the help of a Guernsey-man on board, is not only deceitful, but insulting, demeaning, and cruel.** In short, like the rotting whales, Stubb’s behavior turns both the nose and the stomach.

Our culture uses a variety of metaphors to optimistically suggest goodness in the heart of badness — pearl in the oyster, oasis in the desert, diamond in the rough, clouds with silver linings***, etc. — but Stubb’s trickery and greed turns the metaphor on its head somewhat. What do we make of a situation where a sweet smell found amidst a stench suggests a deeper, far less superficial kind of rot? Has the self-serving ethos of capitalism deprived us of any true optimism?

*Ambergris is a fatty, oily substance found in the intestines of sick whales, possibly a sort of lubricant for ingested irritants. Used for cosmetics and perfumes, ambergris was even more valuable than oil.

**Guernsey is an English island off the coast of France.

***Or Zinc linings, according to Alex P. Keaton.

Chapter 91: The Pequod meets the Rose-bud

From the heart of the stench
A rose-bud blooms,
A rose-bud blooms for the day.

The brilliant devise,
A posture to prize,
The moment’s luck from dismay.

As adjoining streams
Join as one, kneeling
Through the banks of probable decay,
Cannot claim perfume
Into rotten wounds,
May your sweetness live above the day!

Tides of the stench
Will ebb and flow,
And you, untouched, my Amber-Gray.

As adjoining streams
Join as one, kneeling
Through the banks of probable decay,
Cannot claim perfume
Into rotten wounds,
May your sweetness live above the day!

From the heart of the stench
A rose-bud blooms,
A rose-bud blooms for the day.

Tides of the stench
Will ebb and flow,
And you, untouched, my Amber-Gray.

(c) and (p) 2008 Patrick Shea
Words and music written by Patrick Shea October 9, 2008
All parts performed, arranged, and recorded by Patrick Shea November 7, 2009

DO PIAZA CHICKEN

A Simple recipe for the ultimate Mughlai Cuisine

By

VIKRAM KARVE

If you want a first impression of the authenticity of a “Mughlai” Restaurant, the first dish you must order and taste is a “Do Piaza” and it will give you an idea of the standard and authenticity of Mughlai Cuisine you can expect there.

Indeed the “Do Piaza” may be considered the culinary benchmark to judge and evaluate a Mughlai Restaurant.

And if Do Piaza [Mutton or Chicken] doesn’t figure on the menu, you better order Chinese or Continental, or stick to the ubiquitous “Punjabi” Butter Chicken-Naan routine!

“Do Piaza” means “two onions” or rather “double onions”.

Now how did this dish get its name?

Maybe it’s apocryphal, but legend has it that this delicious dish was invented by Mullah Do-Piaza, a renowned and celebrated cook at the Mughal Emperor Akbar’s court. One of the Navaratnas (nine jewels), it is said he could conjure up culinary delights using only two onions, and a Mughlai dish cooked in that particular style is called a “Do Piaza”.

Water is not used at all when cooking a Do Piaza.

Onions (Piaz or Pyaaz) are used twice – hence the name “Do” [“Two”] Piaza, or Pyaaza, spell it whichever way you like.

Come Dear Reader and fellow Foodie; let’s together cook a Chicken Do Piaza. It takes time, but it’s easy.

THE FIRST PIAZA

First cut a generous number of onions (the more the onions the sweeter the gravy) into rings, yes separate onion rings.

Now, in a large cooking vessel, put in the chicken pieces, add a liberal amount of curds and mix well. Copiously layer the chicken-curd mixture with the onion rings, cover with a tight lid and set aside to marinate for at least an hour.

Remember, do not vigorously mix in the onion rings; just liberally layer the chicken-curd mélange with the onion rings.

After marinating the chicken-curd-onion ring mixture for an hour or more, place the vessel on a slow fire with the lid on, and let the chicken cook slowly in its own juices and those released by the onion rings, till the onion rings are reduced to a pulp and, finally, the liquid almost dries up.

This is the first “Piaza”!

THE SECOND PIAZA

In another pan, pour in and heat pure ghee and fry sliced onions (the “second” piaza) till crisp brown, add finely chopped ginger and garlic, bay leaf, slit green chillies, cardamoms, cinnamon, cloves, peppercorns, and then an adequate amount of chopped tomatoes, stir and fry on slow fire, and when the ghee separates, add the chicken [cooked in curds and onion rings] from the first pot, and stir fry till well browned and the gravy becomes nice and thick.

I don’t like to add garam masala, turmeric, red chilli powder, or any other spice powders; but if you like it, go ahead.

I always find it best to taste the gravy and add the minimal amount of salt as necessary almost at the end of the cooking process.

Remember, do not add water at any stage or you will ruin the dish.

A “Do Piaza” cooks in its own juices – during both the first and second “piazas”.

EATING THE “DO PIAZA”

Place in a serving dish, squeeze a lemon, garnish with fresh green chopped coriander and your Chicken Do Piaza is ready to eat.

But first let’s “visually” savour the Do Piaza in our mind’s eye.

It looks appetizing – nicely browned generous pieces of succulent mutton, in translucent juicy onion rings in scrumptious gravy.

It smells good too – heavenly mouth-watering aroma wafts towards you making you smack your lips and salivate in anticipation of the gastronomic treat that awaits you.

It tastes marvellous – absolutely delicious, not spicy hot, but mild and flavoursome, the unique sweetish zest of onions is discernible and as the heavenly medley of flavours and fragrances synergizes inside you, and you feel a sense of supreme satisfaction.

Relish the Chicken Do Piaza with hot chappties, phulkas or even a piece of soft fluffy pav, and you will experience sheer bliss.

For more such mouthwatering recipes do read my foodie book Appetite for a Stroll

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

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

http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2

Happy Eating.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

I may be 17 years late in appreciating this and, according to Wikipedia, it’s already rather renowned but I watched a poetry reading last night that was rather impressive.

That’s right, Lieutenant Commander Data’s poetic compositions in the Star Trek TNG episode Schisms were, as Geordi described them, ‘clever’. I found one in particular hilarious, especially given his audience’s reactions. Painstakingly transcribed at 3am (unnecessarily it seems – it’s fairly widespread online), I give you Ode to Spot:

Felis catus. Is your taxonomic nomenclature
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature?
Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
A singular development of cat communications
That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

Oh Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

I made a special blog just for it over here in WordPress.  Now, I have written a book for the YA young teen romance market except, there is more to it than that, because of my training.

(See “about myself as a writer” at the top of this page)

In order to talk about what is going on in the book as a whole — because there is a lot going on, and because I want to get feedback from say, Librarians, I felt I needed to make a separate blog.

You, dear reader, can click this LINK and go!

http://heartofclouds.wordpress.com/

I plan on having it ready very soon — because, I’m looking for a literary agent who can handle both this as well as the literary erotica I have written for grown-ups.

xxoo!

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY
Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

by

VIKRAM KARVE

There is a saying: “ If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover ”.

That’s why I did not tell Raj.

Or involve him in any way.

Not even the smallest hint.

I made my plans alone and with perfect care.

An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur.

And then my phone would ring – to convey the “bad” news.

And suddenly I would be a widow.

Free.

Liberated from shackles.

Released from bondage.

Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.
Then after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose to marry me – an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”.

First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept – just for my children’s sake.

There would be nods of approval all around.

And soon Raj and I would be Husband and Wife.

The phone rang.

I panicked.

There is no fear like the fear of being found out.

I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am.

Had something gone wrong?

I felt a tremor of trepidation.

The phone kept on ringing – it just wouldn’t stop ringing.

I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath.

The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.

I’m not well,” I lied.

“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.

“No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone.

I smiled to myself.

That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy.

I would have to be careful indeed.

And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more.

Raj accepts me as I am – nice and plump and on the “healthier” side, as he calls me lovingly.

Not like Manish who is always finding fault with me.

I know I can always depend on Raj.

He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband Manish’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Soon it would be garlanded.

My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted.

I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man.

Also, I prefer to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple.

I had programmed a Robot to do the job.

The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory.

At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check.

And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements.

It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become quite complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different.

Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night.

This is what was going to happen.

At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain.

It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous.

Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave. A real dope – he deserved it!

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident.

Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow, with one and all showering me with sympathy and compassion.

And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore.

And then, after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and we would live happily ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock.

Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. Maybe I should give Manish a last chance.

All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home.

Feign a sudden illness or something.

But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj.

The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was.

At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested.

Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect?

I do not know.

Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore?

I don’t think so.

We had kept our affair absolutely clandestine.

I looked again at the clock.

11.45 am.

One hour to go.

I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension – a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear.

So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin.

As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down.

Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself.

Once I married Raj I would never drink – there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband Manish sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening.

Manish was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk.

He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile.

How I hated the mere sight of him.

The very thought of my husband made me gulp down my drink.

I poured myself one more drink and gulped it quickly to steady my nerves. Then I had one more drink; and one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call.

The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. – it was from Singapore.

Was it Raj? From Singapore? My heart skipped a beat. I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” it was Raj’s voice.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Yes, Rajashree, she wants to talk to you,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

It was strange.

Who was this Rajashree?

I knew nothing about her!

So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Even I can’t believe it could happen so fast – Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We, Raj and I, got married yesterday and we are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj has gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And suddenly she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone.

I felt as if I had been pole-axed.

I looked at the wall-clock.

12.55.

Oh, My God!

The deadline of 12.50 had gone.

It was too late.

My blood froze.

The telephone rang.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically into the phone, “Tell me, is he dead?”
“No. He’ll survive.”

Manish did survive.

I wish he hadn’t.

For his sake. And for mine.

For till this day he is still in coma.

And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ husband all my life.

It was a small miscalculation.

600 Amperes wasn’t enough.

But then the Robot is a machine.

My real miscalculation was about Raj.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY

Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

Mythgirl lives on mythos — because it makes everything so much larger and more exciting than life.  Yesterday, for example, she channelled *HESTIA to clean the house and cook the feast.  Her guests arrived on time to be **TANTALIZED by the ***NECTAR and AMBROSIA she spread before them.   Today she’s still feeling pretty full, and enjoyed watching the sequel to Matrix where she realized that that movie is filled with characters from mythology — NIOBE, PERSEPHONE, and the mis-named MABINOGION.

* Goddess of the Hearth — We all channel her to some extent, depending on how cozy and grounded we are.

**Tantalus stole the immortal food and drink of the Gods, then served up his son to them.  His punishment?  To be TANTALIZED eternally — To nearly drown in water he can never drink, to sit at a table loaded with food that he can never eat.

*** AMBROSIA — food of the Gods — and NECTAR — sweet drink of the Gods.  Ambrosia is called the “food of the gods” for it is what makes them immortal, undying.

So NECTAR, literally overcoming death, NECTAR is literally a drink, a fluid. Of course both Nectar and Ambrosia are sweet and delicious but are, by definition, only enjoyed by Gods and the few HEROS, such as Hercules, who are permitted to “reach the gods.

The sweetness of immortality, IMPERISHABLE FAME, was strictly attainable by warriors in PIE culture, hence the warlike nature of the culture and the fact that the cultures that have descended from it devote their epics to the glorification of warrior heroes. But why are these heroes so eager to die heroically, so convinced that the formula “LOSE good fame – GAIN long life” is not worth the exchange (Watkins 176)?

Twitter users: Sign up for almost daily Archetype Alerts — Mythgirl, the Real Delphi Oracle.

Actually, my esteemed colleague informs me that the movie is in limited release this weekend, and that it will open to a broader audience next week. Despite my display of internet rage now having been proven to be entirely inappropriate, I must admit I’m still somewhat miffed. This film has been delayed for over a year now, and this half-hearted release is actually disappointing. Jeez guys, you’re already pushing the envelope on getting it out there before the Oscars – make with the andale and get this sucker out there, no?

Logicomix: An Epic Search for Truth
By Apostolos Doxiadis and Christos H. Papadimitriou

Graphic nonfiction achieves a new level of elegance in a very rarefied subject: the career of Bertrand Russell – mathematician, philosopher, and educator — and his search for the logical foundation of mathematics.  Against the backdrop of two world wars, Russell tries to argue for humans to base their behavior on reason; but the cruelty of his fellow logicians gives the book its skeptical edge.

- Jordan Sayle

Dew has removed the free fiction section on her site (She really meant no more free!). She removed the poetry section on her site (No more that either!) And romance readers don’t say I didn’t tell you—Dew will soon remove The Polar Pact from circulation. Illicit Escapes will follow. The only way you will eventually be able to get those books will be on kindle and other ebook-like-reader kindle things. And eventually Dew will take those out as well. If you ask me, at some point no one will remember she ever wrote romance!

All the romantic fun has gone out of the room as Dew hits the Hard Cores. She has so much amazing energy that when her thing for romance writing kind of went out, I lost interest too. Now, if she can just tell me how and where she’s been getting some intellectual orgasm. Yes I still want to know! She says the dandiest things—only no longer for romance readers.  

Dew goes, “I’m all the hands on deck,” meaning she’s the one that does everything for her books. Says I have no such rights but she ain’t the boss of me. Scolds me on a public deadline which is now apparent she wouldn’t keep. Says she’ll finish the book in one week so I extended the deadline by one week (Wink!) But the only thing that will still be free on Dewlogic is her rants.

As The Adventures of Silli Page hits Amazon, How to Become Human (A story), and here I say it is the most amazing short story I ever read. Yes I mean it! You’ll see it yourself. I can not be anything but excited. And we are all watching it happen! Have you met any spirit like Dew’s lately? Don’t think so. Here  is her Defying Material Odds, and my version of Thanksgiving Curse the 8million others. I’m happy the story is dedicated to Brisha, her first fan. It will be available free on Dew’s site and it is rated everyone.  I will introduce it directly on her blog. Now as the New year rolls in, it is my prediction that one way or the other, you’re gonna get Dewlogic!  

THE ADVENTURES OF SILLI PAGE EXCERPT

For character profiles and everything else about the book visit    ADVENTURES OF SILLI PAGE WEBPAGE

Darkness Abiding Available on Your PC! 

 DARKNESS ABIDING EXCERPT. 

Darkness Abiding ON KINDLE

petal by petal, we sheave our lies into the wind like falling cherry blossoms
or plane crashes while the insects and the frogs vette our plans for signs of
the inaccuracy and doubt which is the hallmark of our species
the infamy of humanity will eventually also fade
like kites caught in tree branches,
forgotten by the moonlit hawks and dreary beetles

Yes, I’m making a modest proposal that you click away from my site (take a screenshot, this may never happen again) and go over to David B. Dale’s blog and read his heartwarming Thanksgiving story, destined to be an instant classic.

Why? Because…well, here’s the first line:

She was our youngest and tender-hearted (tender, in fact, throughout) and therefore hard to eat.

congrats to the new author

Which I got via WritingIsLife on Twitter. That’s the pen up there, taking all the credit. You know the actual author is lying on the bed, zonked on painkillers and getting an IV put in.

Doing a search of books with a word from the above two, it is revealing how many titles you come across like: ‘Women and Development’, ‘ Alcoholism and woman’, ‘Woman working’   or sewing wemen’, and so on. I mean the books that promote the activism.

The politics of sex dominates the agenda.

The talk show that I stopped watching in 1997 is disappearing in 2011, as was declared by its hostess. What a loss…

Farmville Mania
By: Laforteza, Wilbert C.

One morning, I barged-in at the library to tend at my usual task, which is reading a newspaper. Upon entering, I noticed several students huddled on two computers at the IMS Section…hearing some saying the words: eggplant, cow, harvest and wheat. Disregarding the noise, I continued until few minutes later, while reading the Inquirer, I was bothered seeing the restless students…some noisily couch and cheer while the rest stand firmly but with all eyes on the computers. Annoyed but alacrity of knowing what’s going on, I approached the group and took a glance on the monitor then I read the word “Farmville” and saw on the background plots teeming with crops. I sighed, “Oh! It’s a farmers’ game.”
Since I’m a farmer and belongs to a family of farmers, too, I turned interested with Farmville so I got the nerve to research about it thru the net at home, one evening. Before searching, I logged in my account at Facebook then begun surfing. I was surprised to know that it’s simply imbedded at the Facebook’s applications. I’ve been maintaining my FB accounts for more than a year but it was then my firs time to open a game in it. Eager to explore Farmville though still unknown to the mechanics, I tried and experienced the ever first time in my life “virtual farming”…’twas a funny start.
When I scavenged informations and dug up the Farmville’s story, I learned that it’s a social game developed by the Zynga Company and they launched it last June 19, 2009. Since it’s launched, it rapidly gained millions of client users. I was surprised to know that today, Farmville user enormously increasing by a million per week. Wow! It is amazing that so many people patronize this virtual game. This social game is now a world’s giant online game serving several millions of users. Really, the population is huge within the Farmville community…the rapid increase is so astonishing!
There’s a cash flow in the Farmville game, there’s income on every harvest and there are bonus amounts from such visit to neighbors’ farm. I wonder if these dollar pennies can be converted or enchased into real cold cash. Hmm…that could be a good and opportunity for all who are fond of Farmville to earn real cashes. On the other hand, I could not wait that one time; the virtual money accumulated may be used to trade or purchase desired actual products. That would be an easy way to linger a market life via online transactions. It will mean a convenient way to access financial resoureces in just clicks.
Repeatedly, I played Farmville…it lures me to check the game frequently or else the crops planted may wither if they’re not harvested a lengthy time.
Now, something I learned from Farmville; just like in real farming, crops need to be tended and harvested within certain time or else they’ll wither or left unbeneficial. Endeavor, time, capital and labor are of waste if the crops are left unattended in long time or they are abandoned. Abandoning crops, fowls and livestock means loosing a farming livelihood…and losing will let you weep in misery.
Care for crops, animals as well your whole farm; Farmville players…all have the swelling amusement in this game, happy virtual farming! I hope you could be convinced to love farming in real life…farming is a dignifying occupation because you have the opportunity to procure food for everyone who’re waiting for something to devour.

Hello there,

 I am inquiring into your copy of The Origin of the Species. I regret that I was unable to find a university nearby where the copies were being distributed. I notice that you have a very detailed download section on your website and am wondering if you might make a digital copy of the book available to the internet community.

Thank you for your time and what I assume will be a swift inclusion of the file’s availability,

Sincerely yours,
Mick Axelrod
http://www.worldsasmyth.wordpress.com

THE GIFT OF LOVE

Short Fiction – A Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act.

I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.

The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her.

A man’s first love occupies an enduring place in his heart.

Ten years. Ten long years. She had married money. And status.

I was heartbroken.

Yet I bore her no pique or rancor. Never will. How can I?

I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. Till my dying day.

I was desperately eager to impress her.

To give her a gift would be too obvious.

I did not know how much she had told her husband about me, about us, about our unrequited love!

Her children should be the same age as mine. Maybe slightly older.

They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children.

I looked at the packet under my arm.

A gift. A gift for her children.

The deluxe set of children’s encyclopedias I had promised my son. And my daughter. Year after year. For the last three years. And did not buy. Because it was too expensive.

And now I was going to present it to Anjali’s children. Just to impress her.

Why? I do not know.

As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation.

Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me.

The door opened.

Anjali looked ravishing. She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv! After so many years! What a delightful surprise. How did you manage to find me?”

We looked at each other. Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning. She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.

“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.

“You look so beautiful. And so young!” I said with genuine frankness.

“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.

Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”

Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere.

Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanor slick and confident.

No wonder!

To ‘belong’ had always been the driving force of her life.

Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted.

I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.

“You like my house?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”

I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.

Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”

I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”

Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.

“You don’t trust cops, do you?” I said with a smile.

Anjali blushed.

She kept the wallet on the table. Then she looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you? Superintendent? Deputy Commissioner?”

Now it was my turn to blush.

“No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”

“Oh!” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.

But I had read the language of her eyes. The nuance wasn’t lost on me. Suddenly she had changed.

“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.

“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.

“Oh! I thought he would be home,” I said.

“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.

“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”

“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director and the CEO. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.”

She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly. I got the message loud and clear.

Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find my husband’s purse?”

“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied, trying to keep a straight face.

“It’s strange,” Anjali said. “He didn’t mention anything.”

“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”

“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look.

Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license. At first she appeared confused. Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything.

There was a long period of silence. Grotesque Silence.

Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes. A distant look. Almost dismissive.

I began to feel uneasy.

Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids!”

From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong.

I saw tears well up in her eyes.

All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable.

I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me.

I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use.

Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain.

The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.

We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence.

It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.

I could not bear it any longer.

I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door.

Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift.

But I did not turn back.

Why? I do not know.

“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.

I stopped in my tracks.

I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me.

I turned around to face her. She seemed a bit composed.

“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”

I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.

“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded.

When in doubt, I speak the truth, so I told her the truth, “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….” I could not continue…so I mumbled, “I am sorry. I did not know…”

“I know! Oh yes I know!” Anjali said mockingly. “That impotent creep! Trying to prove his virility to himself.”

With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage.

I looked at her.

Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.

I was nonplussed. Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”

I still don’t know why I uttered those words but the moment she heard my words there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali.

Suddenly she became flaming mad.

She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened.

I was terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, so I instinctively stepped back.

But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room.

I waited, dumbstruck, pole-axed, frozen for a moment and after regaining my composure decided to leave and started to move towards the door.

“Wait!” I heard her scream. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand.

She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it? Even from me! You unscrupulous swine, I didn’t expect you to fall so low. Here – take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband; don’t you?”

“No, Anjali,” I recoiled in horror, “Please don’t ………..”

“Cheap!” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff! That’s what you always were, Sanjiv. Get out you filthy blackmailer.”

She threw the bundle of notes at me. It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.

“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it?”

She paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you? Happy to see how successful my marriage is, isn’t it?”

Her sly and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else.

I turned around and walked out of the house.

As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back.

I winced in pain.

The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopedia were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn.

I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me. But I did not look back at her.

I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.

Next morning, as I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was in my bed.

Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.

Slowly things began to come into focus.

My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed. She touched my arm with tenderness.

There were tears in her eyes.

My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.

There was fear in his eyes.

My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy!”

She was holding the set of encyclopedias in her hands.

I smiled and reached out to them.

They held my hands and smiled back.

I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.

For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children; a love which I had never felt before.

Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.

I had discovered love.

Yes, I had discovered the gift of love.

THE GIFT OF LOVE
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

Here’s a Black Friday deal that the big-box retailers can’t beat.  Buy the new album from the up-and-coming indie band Ezra Furman and the Harpoons and you’ll get a personalized song thrown in, for no extra charge.  Just send them a letter with your life story (or a condensed version, perhaps), and they’ll churn out a folk-rock ditty with your name on it.

Moon Face: Bootlegs and Road Recordings 2006-2009

Since coming together at Tufts University, Ezra and his band mates have written so many songs and played so many live shows that there were plenty of cuts left off of their first two releases.  Those songs find a home on Moon Face: Bootlegs and Road Recordings 2006-2009 — alongside that unique, personalized track.  There have been more than 100 orders in the first weeks since the album’s release, which means the band will be busy writing odes to its fans during any downtime on its current tour.  (Ezra plays a solo Thanksgiving Eve show tonight at the Lincoln Park Whole Foods in Chicago).

Ezra (in the center of the frame) and the Harpoons

And speaking of harpoons, we’re serving whale for Thanksgiving this year in “Studio 360.”  You can hear all about the classic novel that Ezra’s band took as inspiration as we rebroadcast our Moby-Dick episode, the Peabody Award-winning installment in our “American Icons” series.  Guests include playwright Tony Kushner, artist Frank Stella, and science fiction writer Ray Bradbury.  Get hooked this weekend to find out if Herman Melville’s 1851 masterpiece still holds water. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

- Jordan Sayle