Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  I asked Putli to come along with me. She said a firm no. ‘Margaret behn, I’ve taken a vow never to step out of the ashram. When I go I’ll be taken out feet first, on the shoulders of four men.’

  There were things about Putli that made no sense to me.

  I set off on my own. The shops stocked provisions of all kinds—from salt, pepper, spices, sugar and tea to joss sticks, sindhoor powder, candles, matchboxes and mosquito repellents. There were also bales of cloth, coarse silk and cottons. I noticed they had a few sets of readymade salwar-kameez outfits. I held a kameez against my chest to check whether it was my size and saw it was too small.

  The shopkeeper came towards me. ‘Okay, memsahib, I call darzee.’ He called out to someone and a man appeared from behind the little store with a measuring tape and a pencil stuck behind his ear. He took my measurement down on a slip of paper. ‘Choose cloth,’ the shopkeeper said.

  I picked a piece of saffron cotton that I thought would go best with my blonde hair. It was also the most popular colour among people tired of the world. I paid for four sets of clothes which the shopkeeper said would be delivered to me the next day. I also bought mosquito repellent lotion and joss sticks, some of which I wanted to give Putli.

  Gradually I fell into the routine of ashram life. I memorized some of the mantras they chanted. Putli taught me the Gayatri Mantra in praise of the sun, which she recited every morning when she took her dip in the Ganga. Slowly my joints began to ease up and I found that I had mastered the padma asana.

  As the days grew warmer, I spent the afternoons taking a long siesta, lying naked in my room under a whirring ceiling fan. I persuaded Putli to take a second dip in the Ganga before sunset—that was the only place she was willing to go to outside the ashram. For Putli it was as though Vaikunth Dhaam was a mother’s womb in which she found security, and the path to the Ganga the umbilical cord through which she drew sustenance. When I ventured beyond that path, I went alone. Once in a while I would take a bus to visit neighbouring towns—Lachhman Jhoola, Rishikesh, Haridwar—and take photographs, buy books and religious tracts. I understood very little of what I read but it didn’t matter. After many years I was at peace with myself. I did not miss alcohol or smoking, and sex was the last thing on my mind.

  After a month or so I felt I should see some more of the countryside and explore the towns that lay along the one and only road leading to the ashram. I joined a German couple interested in medicinal herbs and wildlife. We went deep into the surrounding forest. They picked up herbs and put them in their cloth bags. I spotted different kinds of deer, fresh droppings of elephants and even a couple of leopards disappear down the valley. The variety of bird life amazed me.

  When I came back to the ashram and told Putli and the others what I had seen the only comment they made was, ‘Really?’ I discovered that Indians were not very interested in nature or wildlife.

  The neighbouring towns and villages, I discovered, were quite nondescript, with a few shops around small temples. There were always ash-smeared sadhus about. Once I passed almost two dozen men, stark naked, as they strode along the dusty road with their penises dangling between their thighs. I asked the man sitting next to me in the bus who they were. ‘Nagas,’ he replied, ‘naked sadhus.’

  ‘That I can see,’ I said, ‘but why?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’

  Indians weren’t curious to know anything. Back in the ashram it was the German couple who told me of the cult of Naga sadhus, and the trouble they created for the authorities when they assembled in large numbers at religious festivals. I wondered whether they got erections when they saw women but decided it was best to keep my curiosity to myself.

  *

  It got unbearably hot in June. Even in the high Himalayas it was difficult to walk in the sun. Occasionally a dust storm would blow; once we had a day and night of heavy rain and hail. Lightning flashed all night and the mountains echoed with thunder. Then it was over and the days were hot again. All day we heard the koels call. Then I heard the brain-fever bird, which I was told was the harbinger of the monsoon. Till the third week of June there was not a cloud in the sky. Putli and I spent a longer time in the river in the afternoons. The water was chilly and it was delicious lying in the shallows and letting it run over our bodies. Once a week I took my bottle of shampoo and a mug to the washrooms of the ashram. Putli would scrub my hair and wash the lather away with mugfuls of cold water, cooing all the while, ‘Margaret behn, you have such lovely hair, made of gold thread. And look at mine, black and lifeless, hanging like a mouse’s tail.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I would reprimand her. ‘You have perfectly healthy hair.’ I had realized by now that Putli needed constant reassurance.

  It was one day in the last week of June that the German couple I had befriended asked me if I would like to go with them to Haridwar. They had hired a taxi that would pick them up after lunch and bring them back after they had seen the spectacular Ganga aarti at sunset. I jumped at the idea. I tried to persuade Putli to come along but she was quite firm in refusing my invitation.

  ‘So I won’t go to bathe in the Ganga this evening. I only go because of you,’ she said with a long face.

  ‘Can I get you something from Haridwar?’ I asked, trying to get her out of her sulk.

  ‘Anything you like,’ she replied shrugging her shoulders.

  It was to be a fateful day, momentous in a way I could not have anticipated.

  When we left Vaikunth Dhaam it was hot and sultry. An hour or so after we reached Haridwar it got worse. We left the taxi at the stand and told the driver we would be back as soon as the aarti was over. There, the German couple and I parted company. The couple had a camera and wanted to take pictures; I wanted to loiter along the bazaars. There was nothing I found worth buying for Putli. I settled for a dozen glass bangles of different colours and a head scarf with Rama printed all over it. Then I went to the ghats and headed towards Har ki Paudi where the main action was to take place.

  I passed by many temples none of which was beautiful. I saw lots of well-fed cows, groups of sadhus and parties of pilgrims. At one secluded spot I saw four or five ash-smeared sadhus sitting around a smouldering fire smoking chillums. In the middle was a young man, the handsomest man I had seen, done up like Shiva. His hair was matted with a silver crescent moon stuck in it. He had nothing on him except a red jockstrap that covered his genitals. He sat ramrod straight, taking a puff of the chillum each time it was passed to him.

  Our eyes met; his were large as a gazelle’s. His gaze drew me towards him. It was as though I was hypnotized.

  ‘Lady, come,’ he said to me with a sinister smile, and waved his acolytes away. I went and sat down beside him. He took a couple of puffs at his chillum and handed it to me. ‘Try,’ he commanded. I took the chillum from him, cupped my hands as he had done and inhaled the smoke. It was ganja, very much like the pot I had smoked back home. I hadn’t touched the stuff for months, and it hit me hard. My head went into a swirl.

  ‘Like it?’ he asked. ‘Give money to sadhu.’

  I opened my purse and gave him a hundred-rupee note. He examined it against the light and then tucked it in his jockstrap. He kept gazing at me, my hair and my breasts, with the leering smile still stuck on his face. Then, very casually, he loosened his jockstrap and took out his erect penis. ‘Like it?’ he asked. ‘Hundred rupee more, I put it in you.’

  I knew I couldn’t. I bent my head down in his lap and, kissing his penis, said firmly, ‘No, not today. I’m going now.’ I stood up, unsteady on my feet, and without looking back, headed towards Har ki Paudi.

  Dark clouds had spread across the sky. A strong gale picked up. Just as I was approaching the sacred spot, a storm broke over my head. There was lightning and thunder, and it started to rain. I realized the aarti would be washed out and decided to head directly for the taxi stand and await my German friends. By the time I found the cab I was drenched to the skin and shivering with
cold. Half an hour later the German couple arrived, also drenched, hugging their cameras under their shirts. ‘Some rain!’ said the man. ‘We must get into dry clothes as soon as we can.’

  It was pelting. I continued to shiver with cold through the car ride. On the way we passed a country liquor shop. I asked the driver to pull up. ‘If I don’t get a swig of whiskey or rum, I will get pneumonia,’ I said to the Germans by way of explanation. The two of them said nothing. I bought myself a bottle of gin because it looked like water. I asked the vendor to scrape off the label. He dunked the bottle in a bucket of water beside him, then pulled it out and neatly peeled off the label. Evidently, he was used to doing this. I took a gulp and offered it to the Germans. ‘No thank you,’ they said, ‘it is against the rules.’ Rules be damned, I said to myself, I don’t want to die of cold in a strange land. I felt better with the gin inside me and took a few more swigs as we went along.

  It was after ten when we got to Vaikunth Dhaam. Everyone had turned in except Putli. She was waiting for me. ‘Margaret behn, I nearly died of worry. Look at your clothes, they’re dripping with water.’

  I got into my room and stripped myself of the wet clothes. Putli rubbed me with the towel and helped me into my dressing gown.

  ‘You must get into bed at once. I’ll see if I can get you something to eat from the kitchen.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to eat anything. I just want the shivers to stop.’

  ‘I am not going to let you sleep alone tonight. You may need help,’ she said in a tone of authority.

  A few minutes later she hauled in her charpai and bedding and arranged them along my bed. For a while she lay still, then stretched out her hand to feel my pulse.

  ‘No fever, but you are still shivering. You chant Om arogyam, gone is my sickness, and you will feel better.’

  I obeyed her. ‘Om arogyam,’ I repeated through my chattering teeth.

  ‘I’ll lie with you for a while and warm your body,’ said Putli and slid into my bed and lay beside me. I made room for her. I was still shivering and her warm body felt good, so I took her in my arms. She snuggled close, burying her face in my breasts. She began kissing them. I opened the front of my night gown so she could have direct access to my body. She kissed my breasts over and over again, first one then the other, suckling hungrily like a child. It was delicious. I was aroused. I kissed her on the lips, then kissed her all over her face. I took her tiny breasts in my mouth, one at a time. Putli was frantic with a demonic passion, clawing my arms, my shoulders, waist and buttocks. ‘Margaret behn, lie over me. I want you. I love you.’

  ‘My pet, you’ll be crushed under my big body.’

  ‘Crush me to pulp. Eat me,’ she moaned. She lay there like a butterfly pinned to a board. I stretched myself out over her. She crossed her legs over my buttocks, dug her nails into them and pushed me against her. I don’t know how long we went on. Our bodies were on fire, unquenchable. We thrashed against each other, rubbing our bodies, mauling each other like wild beasts, growling and moaning till we came. I was utterly exhausted. I thought little Putli would be half dead.

  ‘You okay, my little one?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m with you, still lying in your bed,’ she replied.

  We lay next to each other. Sleep overcame me. I could barely feel Putli turning in my arms. A couple of hours later I sensed her kissing me all over my body. Starting from my toes she trailed her mouth along my legs, thighs, my cunt, belly and breasts.

  ‘Kiss me on my lips again,’ she pleaded. Half asleep, I complied. Soon we were going through the entire routine a second time. Only this time it took much longer. We lingered over our every move; it was done with more skill, and drained us of the little energy we had left.

  We did not know when daylight came. It was still pouring, so the Ganga snaan was out of the question. We missed the morning prayer, the yoga asanas and the meditation. We also missed breakfast. More significantly, our absence was noted.

  Apparently the German couple was worried about me, and told the others that I had been in poor shape the previous evening. Near lunchtime somebody knocked on my door and shouted, ‘Margaret behen, are you okay? It is time for the midday meal.’

  ‘I am fine,’ I replied, shaking off my grogginess. ‘I’ll be out in a jiffy.’ My body was stiff; I had nail marks on my neck, on my arms and down my back. Putli was tougher; she was more alert. But both of us looked badly ruffled up. We picked up our towels and clothes and ran to the bathrooms. We were back in a short while, ready to join the others for the midday meal.

  I didn’t say much besides admitting that I’d been drenched and had got the shivers. Putli was a torrent of explanation. ‘Margaret behn had fever,’ she said at the top of her voice. ‘I felt her pulse. I gave her two Aspirins and pressed her body. She is not telling everything; I know she was in a bad way. Very, very bad. We hardly had any sleep; that is why we slept late.’

  No one made any comment. Nobody believed her. What had happened the night before was written on our faces. And the residents of the ashram did not like what they read.

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before our conduct reached Swamiji’s ears. He was known to be a strict disciplinarian who did not tolerate any breach of the ashram’s rules. I was not sure how much he would be told but I was guilty on all counts: I had smoked ganja, kissed a man’s penis, drunk half a bottle of gin and indulged in lesbian sex. He was not likely to accept any excuses and would almost certainly order me to leave Vaikunth Dhaam. My days in the earthly paradise were numbered. What would happen to Putli? She was fragile and had no one to turn to. She would be like a fish tossed out of water; she would wriggle helplessly for a while before she died.

  We resumed our daily routine but the fun had gone out of it. Intermittent rains had made the path to the river very slippery. The Ganga was no longer a crystal clear and sparkling stream. The rains had washed a lot of mud into her. My heart no longer rejoiced to the chanting of prayer; I went through the yoga asanas mechanically and my meditation was disturbed by visions of the lecherous young sadhu, the liquor shop and the turbulent night with Putli.

  It was a classic instance of a dog wanting to return to its vomit; a sow, having washed, wanting to wallow in the mire out of which she had come. I came to the conclusion that I deserved to be thrown out of Vaikunth Dhaam.

  The day of reckoning was not long in coming. One morning a few days later, the receptionist came to my room and told me that Swamiji would like to speak to me that afternoon at four sharp. I knew this was it. I reported at Swamiji’s sanctum fully expecting the sentence of expulsion. I touched his feet and sat down on the floor beside his bed. He put his hand on my head and blessed me. ‘Margaret beti, did you get what you were looking for in Vaikunth Dhaam?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I did, Swamiji. I have been very happy here. I know I have sinned and deserve to be punished.’

  ‘Sin is a very strong word. Don’t use it against yourself. What you have not finally decided on is the sort of life you want to lead. There is your Western way which most Indians are falling for, and there is our ancient way, puritanical you may say, which we in the ashram propagate. Yours is restless activity, rising higher and higher in whatever you do, earning more money, spending it so you can enjoy life—exotic food, wine, uninhibited sex. Striving hard just to have fun. You end up swallowing pills and lying on psychiatrists’ couches. By the time you begin looking for peace of mind it is too late.

  ‘Our way is diametrically opposite. Perform your duty to the best of your ability without considering the rewards. Do not envy other people’s success. Look for joy—for ananda, not fun. Don’t ruin your body with drinks, drugs and overeating. And above all, meditate on the purpose of life and it will give you peace of mind. The two ways, as I said, are diametrically opposite. You cannot combine them. You have to choose one or the other. You were fed up with the life you were leading and wanted to try out the spiritual path. You have done so for a few months but not been convince
d of its truth. You found the longing to return to your older way of living too strong to resist.’

  There was a long silence before I asked, ‘You want me to leave the ashram?’

  ‘I think it would be best for you.’

  ‘What will happen to Putli? She has become very dependent on me.’

  ‘That is another point in favour of your going away. Too much attachment to any person or thing always ends in suffering. You need not worry too much about Putli. She has nowhere to return to. I’ve taken her under my care for as long as I live. I will help her get over the attachment she has to you. It will take time, but she will, don’t worry.’

  ‘When do you want me to leave? I don’t want Putli around when I do.’

  ‘I have thought about that. There is no hurry—three days, four days, a week. Whenever you want to go. Don’t tell Putli about our conversation. When you decide to leave I will ask her to be with me and tell her later that you have left.’

  I held back the surge of emotion within me. I took out a hundred-dollar bill from my handbag and said, ‘Swamiji, as a special favour please give this to Putli as a farewell gift.’

  I left Swamiji with a heavy heart. Without telling anyone else I asked the receptionist to order a taxi to take me to Delhi in three days’ time and to inform Swamiji about it. With Putli I was as cheerful as I could be. Her bed was removed from my room and we spent the remaining days together as if nothing had happened.

  As planned, when my cab arrived, Putli was with Swamiji. I had only one valise in which I stuffed the few clothes I had and got into the car without saying goodbye to anyone. I wondered whether this was what Adam and Eve felt when they were thrown out of Paradise.

  life’s horoscope

  Madan Mohan Pandey was by any reckoning a most unusual young man. ‘So like his father in looks, so unlike him in everything else,’ said people who knew the family. This was true. The father was never seen without his custom-made coat and trousers, even in the height of summer; the son had never been spotted in anything but dhoti-kurta and, since his youth, a saffron-and-gold angavastra around his neck. This was the most obvious contrast. There were other, deeper differences, apparent to those close to the family, and they had begun to surface when Madan Mohan was still a child.