Of No Avail: Web of Wedlock

By BS Murthy

Lured by the pitch - All marriages are made in heaven but some are delayed on earth: We endeavor to hasten them all - Priya goes to Renuka Marriage Bureau.
Scanning the prospects, when she spotted Venu, whom she slighted long ago, she rushes to him to bring about a dramatic encounter.
What brought about Priya’s change of heart to seek her former suitor and how Venu responds to his old flame’s fresh overtures lend suspense to their romance in this eclectic novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BS Murthy
• Release date: Apr 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005275075

BS Murthy

BS Murthy is an Indian novelist, playwright, short story, non-fiction 'n articles writer, translator, a 'little' thinker and a budding philosopher in ‘Addendum to Evolution: Origins of the World by Eastern Speculative Philosophy’ that was originally published in The Examined Life On-Line Philosophy Journal, Vol. 05 Issue 18, Summer 2004.Born on 27 Aug 1948 and schooled in letter-writing, by 1983, he started articulating his managerial ideas, in thirty-odd published articles. However, in Oct 1994, he began penning Benign Flame: Saga of Love with the ‘novel art' and continued his fictional endeavors in ‘plot and character’ driven novels, Jewel-less Crown: Saga of Life and Crossing the Mirage: Passing through youth.Then entering the arena of non-fiction with a ‘novel’ narrative in Puppets of Faith: Theory of Communal Strife, possibly a new genre, he ventured into the zone of translations for versifying the Sanskrit epics, Vyasa’s Bhagvad-Gita (Treatise of self-help) and Valmiki’s Sundara Kãnda (Hanuman’s Odyssey) in contemporary English idiom.Later, ascending Onto the Stage with Slight Souls and other stage and radio plays, he returned to fictional form with Glaring Shadow - A stream of consciousness novel and Prey on the Prowl - A Crime Novel to finally reach the short story horizon with Stories Varied - A Book of Short Stories.Then, as a prodigal son, he returned to his mother tongue, Telugu, the Italian of the East, to craft the short story తప్పటడుగులు (Missteps) only to step into the arena of Indian English Writing with Of No Avail: Web of Wedlock.While his fiction had emanated from his conviction that for it to impact readers, it should be the soulful rendering of characters rooted in their native soil but not the hotchpotch of local and alien caricatures sketched on a hybrid canvas, all his body of work was borne out of his passion for writing, matched only by his love for language, which is in the public domain in umpteen ebook sites.Some of his published articles on management issues, general insurance topics, literary matters, and political affairs in The Hindu, The Economic Times, The Financial Express. The Purchase, The Insurance Times, Triveni , Boloji.com at https://independent.academia.edu/BulusuSMurthyHe, a graduate mechanical engineer from Birla Institute of Technology, Mesra, Ranchi, India, is a Hyderabad-based Insurance Surveyor and Loss Assessor since 1986.He takes keen interest in politics of the day, has an ear for Carnatic and Hindustani classical music and had been a passionate Bridge player.He's is married, to a housewife, with two sons, the elder one a PhD in Finance and the younger a Master in Engineering.-----------------------------------------My ‘Novel’ Account of Human PossibilityWhenever I look at my body of multi-genre work in English, the underlying human possibility intrigues me no end, and why not for my mother tongue Telugu, touted as the Italian of the East, has no linguistic connection with it whatsoever.To start with, I was born into a land-owning family in Kothalanka, a remote Indian village, of Andhra Pradesh to be precise that is after the British had folded their colonial tents from the sub-continent, but much before the rural education mechanism was geared up therein. It was thus the circumstances of my birth enabled me to escape from the tiresome chores of primary schooling till I had a nine-year fill of an unbridled childhood, embellished by village plays and enriched by grandma’s tales, made all the more appealing by her uncanny storytelling ability. Added to that, as my great great maternal grandfather happened to be a poet laureate at the court of a princeling of yore, maybe their genes together strived to infuse their muses in me their progeny.However, as the English plants that Lord Macaulay planted in the Hindustani soil hadn’t taken roots in the hinterland till then, it’s the native tongues that held the sway in the best part of that ancient land. No wonder then, well into my secondary schooling, leave alone constructing an English sentence, whenever I had to read one, I used to be afflicted by an unceasing stammer. Maybe, it was at the behest of the unseen hand of human possibility, or owing to his foresight, and /or both that, in time, my father had shifted our family base to the cosmopolitan town of Kakinada to admit me into Class X at the McLaren High School. And with that began my affair with the English language, facilitated by Chinnababu, my classmate, which, courtesy Abbimavayya, my maternal uncle, found fruition in the continental fiction, in translation, however to the detriment of my mechanical engineering education to the chagrin of my vexed father.Nevertheless, even as the Penguin classics imbibed in me the love for language that is besides broadening my outlook of life, my nature enabled me to explore the possibilities of youth. That’s not all, all through; it was as if destiny tended to afford my life to examine its intrigues while fiction enabled me to handle its vicissitudes with fortitude that stood me in good stead throughout. Besides, in those days of yore, as letter-writing was in vogue, I was wont to embellish my missives to friends and the loved-ones with the insights the former induced and the emotions the latter stirred in me. So to say, all those letters that my latter-day novels carry owe more to my ingrained habit than to the narrative need of my muse.Providentially, when I was thirty-three, my eyes and mind seemed to have combined to explore the effect of the led on the leader, and when the resultant ‘Organizational ethos and good Leadership’ was published in The Hindu; I experienced the inexplicable thrill of seeing one’s name in print. Enthused thus by the fortuitous development, I began to articulate my views on general, and materials management, general insurance, politics, and, not to speak of, life and literature in over a score of published articles. But fiction writing was nowhere near my pen and the thought of becoming a novelist was beyond my horizon for Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Nikolai Gogol, Ivan Turgenev, Emily Zola, Gustav Flaubert et al (I hadn’t read Marcel Proust and Robert Musil by then) were, and are, my literary deities, and how dare I, their devotee, to envision myself in the sanctum sanctorum of the novel.All the same, when I was forty-four, having been fascinated by the manuscript of a satirical novella penned by one Bhibhas Sen, an Adman, with whom I had been on the same intellectual page for the past four years then, it occurred to me, ‘when he could, I can for sure’. It was as if Sen had driven away the ghosts of those literary greats that came to shadow my muse but as life would have it, it was another matter that not wanting to foul his work, as he hadn’t obliged the willing publisher to pad it up to a ‘publishable size’, that manuscript remained in the literary limbo.So, with my muse thus unshackled, I set to work on the skeletal idea of Pardonables, the working title of Benign Flame, with the conviction that for fiction to impact readers, it should be the soulful rendering of characters rooted in their native soil, not the hotchpotch of the local and foreign caricatures sketched on a hybrid canvas, the then norm of the Indian Writing in English. Yet, it took me a full fortnight to make the narrative flowing with the opening – ‘That winter night in the mid-seventies, the Janata Express was racing rhythmically on its tracks towards the coast of Andhra Pradesh. As its headlight pierced the darkness of the fertile plains, the driver honked the horn as though to awake the sleepy environs to the spectacle of the speeding train.’However, from then on, it was as though a ‘novel’ chemistry had developed between my muse and the mood of its characters that shaped its fictional course, and soon I came to believe that I had something exceptional to offer to the world of letters, nay the world itself. So, not wanting to die till I gave it to it, I tended to go to lengths to preserve my life that was till I delivered it in nine months with a ‘top of the world’ feeling at that. Then, when one Spencer Critchley, an American critic, thought that – “It’s a refreshing surprise to discover that the story will not trace a fall into disaster for Roopa, given that many writers might have habitually followed that course with a wife who strays into extramarital affairs” – I felt vindicated about my unique contribution. Just the same, as there were no takers to it among the Indian publishers and the Western agents, I was left with no heart to bring my pen to any more paper (those were the pre-keyboard days) though my head was swirling with many a novel idea, triggered by my examined life lived in an eventful manner.Nevertheless, sometime later, that was after I happened to browse through a published book; I had resumed writing, owing altogether to a holistic reason: while it was the quality of Sen’s unpublished work that set me on a fictional course from which I was derailed by the publishers’ apathy, strangely, it was the paucity of any literary worth in that published book that spurred me back onto the novel track to pursue the pleasure of writing for its own sake. It’s thus; I could reach the literary stations of - Crossing the Mirage and Jewel-less Crown that was before my pen, in the wake of the hotly debated but poorly analyzed post-Godhra communal riots, took a non-fictional turn with the Puppets of Faith.Thereafter, as if wanting me to lend my literary hand to other genres, my muse heralded me into the arena of translation, ushered me onto the unknown stage, put me on a stream of consciousness, took me to crime scenes, dragged me into the by-lanes of short stories, and driven me into the novella fold. However, as a prodigal son, I took to my first steps into the Telugu short story field with my ‘Missteps’ తప్పటడుగులు.Whatever, it was Michael Hart, the founder of the Project Gutenberg, who first lent his e-hand to my books ever in search of readers. But who would have thought that life held such literary possibilities in the English language for a rustic Telugu lad reared in the rural Andhra, even in the post-colonial India? So, the possibilities of life are indeed novel and seemingly my life has crystallized itself in my body of work before death could dissipate it.My body of work of ten free eBooks, in varied genres, is in the public domain: https://g.co/kgs/iA9zkd

Book preview

Of No Avail

Web of Wedlock

BS Murthy

Copyright@2021BS Murthy

Cover image by Gopi

F-9, Nandini Mansion,

1-10-234, Ashok Nagar,

Hyderabad – 500 020

Other books by BS Murthy –

Benign Flame: Saga of Love

Jewel-less Crown: Saga of Life

Crossing the Mirage – Passing through youth

Glaring Shadow - A stream of consciousness novel

Prey on the Prowl – A Crime Novel

Stories Varied - A Book of short Stories

Onto the Stage – Slighted Souls and other stage and radio plays

Puppets of Faith: Theory of Communal Strife (A Critical Appraisal of Islamic Faith, Indian Polity ‘n More)

Bhagvad -Gita: Treatise of self –help (A translation in verses)

Sundara Kãnda - Hanuman’s Odyssey (A translation in verses)

Contents

Part 1

Part2

Dedicated to –

the flawless Bullipapa, my distant cousin,

with whom I had savored the fruits of our platonic love

before she attained moksha at the young age of twenty-six.

Part 1

ALL MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN HEAVEN BUT SOME ARE DELAYED ON EARTH:

WE ENDEAVOUR TO HASTEN THEM ALL.

So read the billing at Renuka Marriage Bureau.

Rushing to Venu, Priya reread the same.

‘Oh, how fortuitous!’ she thought excitedly as she walked up to her car. ‘So, I could wed him now. Going by his photograph, he looks handsomer than ever; if anything, that streak of grey hair only lends him an aura of its own! It’s as well that he doesn’t dye his hair as most dandies would, more so while seeking a bride. Isn’t it true to his character; being truthful to himself, and to others as well. So, he’s divorced, which means that he was married; what was his wife like; could he have wed on the rebound? How long would’ve their marriage lasted; what could’ve gone wrong with their wedlock? By the way, have the roughs and toughs of his marital life affected his amiable disposition? May not have been, given the softness of his visage in that picture; oh, how I was tempted to flick it from that folder! But why did my sense of decency tie my hands when fate itself played foul with me; didn’t it make me reject his hand out of hand?’

Having reached her car, and sitting still at the steering, she continued to take the clock back in time, ‘How I used to like him in those days, but fate made me blind to his marital charms. But now he’s nearing forty-four and I’m touching thirty-nine; so what, as age has seemingly spared us both its ravages of time to afford us a hectic time to make up for our lost time. Maybe that’s why he looks at his handsomest best and my allure too is at its peak; wont’ all those ogling eyes tell that? Now that his picture has brought my loss to the fore, nearly two decades after our parting of ways, is it that fate has come to repent its thoughtless act? But is it going to redress its wrong doing? If so, when he sees me now, won’t it induce romantic impulses in him replacing his bitter memories of our parting? And for all that, ours could be one such marriage made in heaven that got delayed on earth. Maybe his divorce portends that. But still, given his past hurt and my present proclivities, would he like to own me? Well, I would know that soon enough, won’t I? But come what may, I won’t lose him this time for I can’t bear his loss anymore.’

Having resolved thus, she started her car to steer it to her newfound destination. In time, as the address led her to a middle-class setting, parking her car by the roadside, she rushed to Venu’s first-floor flat only to hold herself at the threshold. Soon though, as the doorbell couldn’t clear the hurdle, seeing the irony of it all, she went back to the car to continue her wait.

‘Would he be able to recognize me at all?’ she thought as his fortuitous absence made her lose the ecstatic momentum his memory had generated.