Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  I made a quick conversion into dollars. It was well within my budget. I had already paid my travel agent for three days at Le Meridien hotel.

  I had heard many nasty things about immigration, customs and cabs at New Delhi’s international airport. But I had no problems at all. An Air India official took me past the immigration queue, had my visa stamped, took me and my valise through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ green channel and handed me over to my co-passenger from Dehra Dun who had promised to drop me off at Le Meridien in his car. Nothing could have been a smoother or pleasanter welcome to a strange country. We had landed a little after midnight; two hours later I was fast asleep in a well-air-conditioned hotel room with the ‘Do not disturb’ sign hanging on my door.

  I do not know how long I slept. My watch still showed New York time. When I awoke, it was broad daylight outside. I thought I should let my mother know I had arrived safely. When the hotel operator connected me, I heard my mother growl, ‘Oos that?’

  ‘It’s me, Mom. I’m in Delhi.’

  ‘Is this any time to call?’ she barked back. ‘It’s 2 a.m. for Chrissake!’

  ‘Sorry, Mom. It’s mid-morning here. Go back to sleep.’ She slammed the phone down. It didn’t look like she was missing me at all.

  My hotel room was much the same as any good hotel room anywhere in America. The bathroom had several little bottles of shampoos, toothbrushes, a tube of toothpaste and even a shaving kit. There was a paper ribbon around the toilet seat. There were pictures of the the Swiss Alps hanging in the room and a Gideon Bible on the bedside table. This was nothing like the India I had expected to find. I took a quick shower, changed into fresh clothes and stepped out to get something to eat—breakfast, lunch, I was not sure which. I went down to the reception and discovered it was past midday. So I had soup, a sandwich and coffee in the coffee shop. Then I walked around the shopping arcade: jewellery, carpets, shawls, antiques, drugstores. I took the elevator to the top floor where there was a large bar and restaurant. Through the massive windows I got a panoramic view of the city, from what looked like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris (they called it India Gate) up a broad avenue lined with flowering trees and a succession of water tanks to the secretariat and the Presidential Palace, which my guide book told me was called Rashtrapati Bhavan. It reminded me of Capitol Hill in Washington. Rows of cars, buses, cabs and three-wheelers, which I had never seen before, crawled along the roads in both directions. Delhi was neat and orderly and, from where I stood, noiseless. This was certainly not the India I had visualized.

  I got closer to the real picture when I joined a party of tourists doing a round of the city sights in an air-conditioned bus. We drove past many old monuments and through noisy, crowded bazaars. I had never seen so many people anywhere before. Everywhere I looked there were people and more people. This was more like the India I had imagined.

  I spent another two days strolling about Delhi on foot. I was pursued by beggars wherever I went. As advised by friends, I refused to give them anything. I was jostled on crowded pavements, and twice somebody felt up my bottom. I had been warned about bottom-pinchers and bag-snatchers. While I clung to my handbag, I couldn’t protect my bum. It did not upset me too much. I felt it brought me closer to the real India.

  On 1 March 1980, at around seven in the morning, I left Delhi for Vaikunth Dhaam. My driver was a young Sikh in a multicoloured turban. He could speak a smattering of English and was inclined to be slightly oversmart. I put him in his place right at the start of the journey. ‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ I told him. ‘If there is anything I want to know, I’ll ask you. I don’t like talking very much.’

  ‘Right, Madam,’ he replied. ‘We make one stop, halfway to Haridwar. Madam can have hot cup of coffee. I will have short break.’

  So it was. We drove out of Delhi through nondescript, shabby towns. There was heavy traffic—cars, buses, tractors, bullock carts, bicycles—the driver kept blaring his horn. The little that I saw of the countryside did not impress me: it was flat as a pancake with patches of green wheat and mango orchards, dustier than anywhere I had ever been. We had the windows rolled up and the air-conditioner on to shut out the dust and the noise. I didn’t bother to ask him the names of the towns we passed, as they wouldn’t have meant anything to me. Two-and-a-half hours later we pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food eatery called Cheetah Point.

  ‘Madam, I come back in half hour after my breakfast,’ the driver informed me.

  I ordered an espresso and a cheeseburger. Though the espresso was more froth than coffee and the cheeseburger vegetarian, I enjoyed both. I paid my bill and took a walk around a well-kept garden full of flowers and large cages with geese, turkeys, parrots and a variety of water-fowl in them. I washed my face in the rest room and sat down on a chair in the lawn. The place seemed to be a popular stop.

  Half an hour later we were back on the road. The countryside became uneven as hills appeared in the distance. There was less cultivation and more forests. Every now and then I saw trees ablaze with bright red flowers. I guessed this must be the flame of the forest. I must have dozed off. I woke up when the driver announced, ‘Haridwar, Madam. Very holy city. Har ki Paudi is steps leading to Ganga Mata, holiest place in world.’

  After we passed through a narrow, congested bazaar, I had short glimpses of the river. Then, a mountain wall on my left, a wide valley with the river flowing through it, and densely forested hills on the other side. We drove up and further up, along a winding dusty road, passed a lot of temples and sadhus smeared in ash and in ochre robes. Around 3 p.m. we turned off the main road, going down densely forested hillsides almost to the bank of the Ganga where there was a flat piece of land growing vegetables and herbs and a broad white wall with a gate.

  ‘Madam, Vaikunth Dhaam,’ the driver announced triumphantly, and drove in.

  It was exactly as it had appeared in the brochure—temple, courtyard, rooms. What the brochure had not captured were the lofty mountains all around, the path running down to the Ganga, the wind carrying the fragrance of pines and firs, the sound of the river rushing over rocks and boulders. I knew I was going to like this place.

  I paid the driver, adding a hundred-rupee tip. He was pleased. More so because he got passengers to Haridwar and beyond. I went over to the reception counter.

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ said the man at the desk. ‘You will be lady Margaret Bloom from New York. You wanted a room to yourself. It has been reserved for you for two months. The evening prayers start at six. Evening meal follows the prayers. I trust you have no alcohol or cigarettes with you—they’re prohibited. I will show you to your room. Swamiji will receive you tomorrow, after the morning prayers.’

  I was shown to my room. It had a charpai with a mattress on it, a pillow and covers; a chair, a table, one light, one ceiling fan, two pictures on the wall—one of Lord Shiva with cobras around his neck and the Ganga pouring out of the dreadlocks piled up on his head, another of a bald man in saffron robes, who I presumed was Swamiji. There was no mirror. I learnt later that this was because Swamiji believed that looking at one’s own face and admiring it boosted one’s ego and vanity, both considered to be deadly sins.

  ‘No loo? I mean, no bathroom?’ I asked.

  ‘Madam, they are outside, through that door,’ the man said, pointing to a door in the western wall of the courtyard. ‘Ladies and gents separately. Two European-style, the others Indian. Also washrooms if you wish to use soap or shampoo. They are not allowed in the Ganga.’

  I shut the door behind him and stretched myself out on the charpai. It was not the most comfortable bed I had lain on, but it did not seem to matter. Though tired, I could get no sleep and kept wondering what I had got myself into. I heard people assembling for prayer. I heard them chant in unison and then sing something of which I only caught the last word, ‘Harey’. It was very soothing. The singing stopped abruptly and I heard feet go pitter-patter along the verandah. I knew it was time for the evening meal. I mustered up co
urage and entered the dining hall. There were about a hundred men and women, including over a dozen Whites dressed in Indian clothes. I was given a warm welcome. ‘Namastey,’ I responded with a smile, and joined the palms of my hands.

  A very small woman, she could not have been more than four-and-a-half feet tall, stood up and said, ‘Behn, you sit next to me.’ I sat down on the bench beside her.

  ‘My name is Putli, which means puppet. I am from Gujarat. And you?’

  ‘My name is Margaret Bloom, I am from New York.’ We shook hands; hers was the size of a three-year-old child’s, and soft as silk.

  Before the meal was served in brass plates there was a short prayer in Sanskrit chanted by a German disciple. A group of men and women went round the table serving spoonfuls of rice, daal and two dry vegetables, all dumped on the same plate. There were no spoons or forks. For the first time in my life I ate with my fingers. I was clumsy but assured myself I would learn fast. For dessert we had a peda. I did not touch the water in the glass placed before me. I had been warned against it. Putli noticed my hesitation and said, ‘Ganga jal, behn, water from the holy Ganga; it is clean and pure.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t drink with my meals,’ I lied.

  We washed our hands and rinsed our mouths at basins at the end of the hall. Many men and women came and introduced themselves: Germans, Australians, Americans, English and Indians. Putli claimed me as her discovery. She took me by the hand when leading me to my room.

  ‘You don’t mind being alone? I am frightened of being alone at night. I sleep with other women in the dormitory,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve always had a room to myself. I sleep much better.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll wake you up in the morning. We all go together to have a dip in the Ganga at sunrise. It is the routine of the ashram. Everyone follows it.’

  I bade Putli goodnight and turned in. Despite the uncomfortable bed and hard-as-wood pillow, I had a sound, dreamless sleep. When I heard the ashram gong I thought I was still dreaming. Then there was a gentle knocking on the door and Putli shouting, ‘Margaret behn, it is time for snaan.’

  I opened the door to let her in. ‘What’s snaan?’ I asked.

  ‘Holy dip. But first sandaas.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, loo, toilet. You can also take a shower and soap yourself there. No soap is allowed in the river.’ She had a small flashlight in one hand and a lota of water in the other. ‘You take your toilet paper with you. And a towel. I will show you the way.’

  It was still pitch dark. The sky was beginning to turn grey. Only the morning star shone brightly above us. I could see a few ghostly figures in the dimly lit courtyard going towards or coming back from the toilets outside. I tore a strip from the toilet roll I had brought with me, stuffed it in the pocket of my dressing gown and tossed a towel over my shoulder. I followed Putli’s flashlight to the toilets. When I came out she was waiting for me, playing with the flashlight, making circles and squiggles with the beam in the dark. I followed her out of the ashram down a footpath leading to the river. The sky was lighter now. It was a gorgeous sight. Huge mountains, one which we were going down, and the other facing us. And in-between the broad expanse of grey-blue light, the river roaring its way over rocks and boulders towards the plains. I stopped for a while to take in the scene. I raised both my arms to the sky and shouted, ‘This is paradise!’

  ‘So it is,’ said Putli. ‘That is why it is called Vaikunth. Let’s get over with the snaan before it gets too bright. There will be lots of men about. Some have dirty minds.’

  Where the path ended the Ganga had split itself into two—the main stream on the other side and a shallower, slower-moving part on ours, divided by a largish island. There were some men a few yards upstream. Putli put down her flashlight, lota and towel on the ground and stepped into the water with her sari on. ‘Ooo, it’s cold. Hari om, Hari om. Come along, behn,’ she urged.

  I slipped off my dressing gown and stood stark naked for a while before quickly stepping into the water. It was icy cold. I rubbed my arms, thighs, belly and breasts before submerging myself neck-deep. I screamed, ‘I’ll freeze to death if I stay in here any longer,’ and ran out to get my towel. Putli remained waist-deep in the river, filled the palms of her hands with water and offered it to the rising sun. After a while she came out shivering.

  ‘Margaret behn, you have a nice body,’ she said and cupped her little hands over my frozen breasts. ‘How big and beautiful. Look at poor me.’

  She slipped off her sari, took my hands and put them on her breasts. ‘So small, like unripe mangoes.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with them,’ I told her, ‘small but shapely. You’d better change into a dry sari or you’ll catch a cold.’

  We rubbed ourselves with our towels till our bodies were flushed red. It was exhilarating. She draped herself in a dry sari; I got into my dressing gown. I felt a little uneasy at the liberty Putli had taken with me. Almost immediately, I dismissed my fears—after all, she was still a child.

  Back in the ashram we went to the temple. On the altar was a beautiful marble statue of Lord Shiva with the Ganga flowing out of his head. It glowed with a halo of coloured lights and was bathed in the fragrance of incense and fresh flowers. The temple filled with the tinkling of bells and soft chanting. It was mesmerizing. After the service we were put through half an hour of yoga asanas. It was sheer torture as I could not perform many of the postures.

  The yoga teacher came over to me and said, ‘Make haste slowly and you will succeed.’ I didn’t know what he meant. This was followed by half an hour of meditation. ‘Empty your mind of all thoughts and concentrate on one point between your two eyes,’ the teacher instructed. Much as I tried I could not empty my mind nor concentrate on one point. Once again I was assured that I would learn soon.

  After meditation a man read out the division of duties for the day—who was to work in the kitchen garden, who was to cut vegetables, cook, serve food, wash the utensils. ‘We will give Behen Margaret Bloom from America time to catch up with the duties we have to perform,’ he said. I was asked to stand up so that I could be seen by everyone. Dutifully I joined the palms of my hands and said, ‘Namastey. I am happy to be with you.’ We had breakfast of pooris, sabzi and herbal tea. Thereafter we were left to do whatever we liked for the rest of the day till the sandhya prayer around sunset.

  On the third day, the receptionist came and told me that Swamiji would like to see me after breakfast. Putli had mentioned that Swamiji sent for the residents in turn, at least once a month, to ask them how they were doing. I went to his room as requested, touched his feet and sat down on the floor. Swamiji looked exactly as in the picture in my room. I was struck by the hypnotic quality of his eyes.

  ‘You are Margaret Bloom from New York,’ he said. ‘I want to know why you came here and if you are getting what you expected to get.’

  I told him everything—that I was fed up of the life I’d been leading, the excesses and indulgence. I told him my parents were divorced a long time ago and lived much the same way I did. ‘It was all so pointless and without purpose. I was deeply disturbed, and decided to make a break. I looked for a place where I could find my true self. I came across Vaikunth Dhaam. From what I have seen in the last two days, I think I made the right choice.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. ‘And how long do you expect to stay with us?’

  ‘Till I am thoroughly cleansed of all the filth I have accumulated in my mind and body. Of course, if you allow me to stay till then. I will abide by your rules and pay for my keep for the time I am here. I can pay ten dollars a day. It is not very much, but that’s all I can afford.’

  ‘Anything you can afford is good enough; money is not important,’ he said. ‘If you have any problems, do not hesitate to come and see me. I am told Putli is looking after you. She is a very nice girl but she too has problems. You may be able to help her sort them out.’<
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  I touched his feet and took my leave. No sooner had I got to my room than Putli came running in, very excited. ‘So you met Swamiji! What did he ask you, and what did you say? Tell, tell.’

  So I told her, and asked what had brought her to Vaikunth Dhaam.

  ‘So many problems, problem after problem, behn. I was in my first year of college when my parents married me off to the son of a rich Gujarati merchant. I wasn’t ready for marriage. All the fellow wanted was sex. He raped me the first night. Then again and again the second and third day. I hate sex. I hate men. I went back to my parents’ house and told them that if they sent me back to him I would kill myself. They did not know what to do with me. They took me to doctors, psychiatrists, sadhus—anyone who could help. I did not want to have anything to do with any of them. Then I heard of this place and persuaded my parents to let me come here for a short time. They were glad to be rid of me. I have been here over three years. I don’t ever want to go back. I want to live and die in Vaikunth Dhaam.’ Putli was very worked up. She was close to breaking down. I stroked her head and asked her to take it easy. The exchange of confidences brought us closer to each other.

  I realized that if I meant to stay in Vaikunth Dhaam for a while I would have to change my lifestyle a little. For starters, my American clothes made it difficult for me to do yoga asanas—try doing a headstand in a skirt! Also, bare legs attracted mosquitoes and flies. Some white women in the ashram wore saris, some dressed in salwar-kameez. I didn’t care much for saris and decided the salwar-kameez would suit me better. I asked a German as tall as myself where she had got hers from. ‘Right here!’ she told me. ‘Go a few yards up the road and you will come across a few shops that cater to the needs of our ashram and the villages around. You will find everything you want there.’