Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  The Speaker could not help but smile. ‘The honourable member should not use unparliamentary language.’

  Zora was prepared. ‘Sir, to call a person a hijda is not unparliamentary. There are three hijda members of Vidhan Sabhas. Who knows, in the next elections there may be some sitting in the opposition benches.’ Saying this Zora sat down. He knew that what he’d said would put him on the front pages of the next day’s papers.

  *

  Zora was in a mood to celebrate—but not with his cronies guffawing at the way he had snubbed the opposition into silence. He would delay the celebration till the evening, play a round of golf after which he would join his friends at the bar for a drink or two—or three. Then what? Back home to his arthritic wife. Come to think of it, he had not had sex with her for more than ten years. Neither seemed to want it any more. They bonded now over their passion for religion. And Deepo had reconciled herself to being her mistress’s companion-cum-ayah. Zora settled for a long siesta and an evening at the Golf Club.

  He got home in time for lunch. He looked tired but triumphant. He told Eeshran what had transpired in Parliament, leaving out the ruckus over the use of the word ‘hijda’.

  ‘You are looking very tired,’ Eeshran said. ‘Why don’t you rest in your study? Let Deepo massage your feet for a while. You will be able to sleep better. I’ll keep the telephone off the hook.’

  Eeshran hobbled to her bedroom. Zora washed his face and stretched himself out on the sofa-cum-bed in his study after switching on the AC. He did not expect Deepo to tend to his tired limbs but left the door unlocked just in case she decided to do so. He was half asleep when he heard the door open and shut. Deepo dragged a moorha, sat by his bed and began to massage the soles of his feet. It was very relaxing. She moved her hands to Zora’s calves and knees and gently kneaded them. Zora spread out his thighs and drew her hand upwards. Deepo stroked his inner thighs and felt his member rising. She pulled down her salwar and straddled him. They lay pounding into each other for a full fifteen minutes till Zora made a few frantic thrusts and lay back exhausted. Deepo slipped out of his study as silently as she had come.

  Zora slept right through the afternoon till he heard Eeshran enter and call out to him. ‘It’s evening; don’t you want to get up? You must have been really tired.’

  ‘I was,’ replied Zora with a big yawn. He looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘My God, it’s past five! Too late for golf. I’ll take a shower. Order chai.’

  Zora went into the bathroom. He felt the stickiness between his legs. He soaped himself thoroughly, changed into fresh clothes and joined his wife in the sitting room. Deepo brought in a tray of tea and samosas. Eeshran asked her, ‘Did you massage his feet?’ Deepo replied with a straight face, ‘He was fast asleep. I did not want to disturb him.’

  ‘Do it now, then,’ Eeshran said.

  So Deepo massaged Zora’s feet while he drank his tea and ate the samosas.

  ‘Have you any programme for the evening?’ Eeshran asked Zora.

  ‘I’ve missed my golf; what other programmes do I have without you? You want to go out for a drive? Or to India Gate?’

  ‘We can go to Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. There is a very good raagi from Amritsar doing the keertan. We can stay on till the evening prayer is over. You will like it after the tiring day you’ve had.’

  So the gurdwara it was. Most people in the congregation recognized Zora—they had seen his picture in the papers and on TV. After paying obeisance to the Granth Sahib, Eeshran, assisted by Deepo, found a place to sit behind the raagis. Zora went around the Granth Sahib twice before he sat down on the other side. He did not want to be disturbed. He closed his eyes and was lost to the world. There were only divine words set to divine music sung by a divine voice. They reached home after the evening service. Such was the peace that prevailed upon them that any small talk would have been sacrilege.

  *

  As Zora had anticipated, his comment on hijdas made the front pages of all papers. There were also laudatory references to his oratory. The telephone rang incessantly. Strangers and friends congratulated him on his performance. Among them was his Minister. ‘Zora bhai,’ he said, ‘kamaal kar diya—you excelled yourself.’

  ‘Mantriji, as long as I live I will not let anyone touch a single hair on your head,’ replied Zora. ‘I hope your enemies are silenced forever and the Prime Minister has realized your true worth.’

  ‘Dekho, let’s see. As I said before, he lends his ear to all kinds of malicious gossip.’

  Zora’s six-year term as a nominated member was coming to a close. With it would go the MP’s bungalow which had been at the disposal of the Minister, the MP sticker on his car windscreen and all the other privileges that went with being a Member of Parliament. Zora was worried about his future. He went to see the Minister to seek his advice.

  ‘I have been thinking about it,’ replied the Minister. ‘They are unlikely to give you a second term in the Rajya Sabha. They did give it to some members earlier but later we took a decision that one term was enough, and that others who have distinguished themselves in the fields of art, literature, music, films, social service and other areas should be given a chance. It was a wrong decision because writers and artists take very little interest in Parliamentary affairs, while people like you who have done signal service to the nation and are still active are denied the privilege of continuing your good work. But that’s how it is. Do you have anything else in mind?’

  ‘Sir, it is for you to decide my future. Whatever little I have achieved is by your grace.’

  ‘Would you like the governorship of a state? I am sure I could persuade the Home Minister to appoint you. We need to have one or two Sikh governors. And who can be a better candidate than you?’

  ‘That is very kind of you, sir. But a governorship would mean I would have to leave Delhi. I don’t think Eeshran would like that. Is there anything else you can suggest which can keep us in Delhi and let me retain the bungalow for your convenience? I am now over seventy, and if nothing else, I would like to leave behind a good name.’

  ‘Zora, don’t talk like that,’ remonstrated the Minister. ‘You will live to be a hundred. Let me think about it. Be assured I will do my best for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, thank you. You are my annadaata, my provider.’

  *

  Weeks went by, then months. It was Zora’s last day in Parliament. Like other members due to retire, he was invited to make his farewell speech. And, as on other occasions, he excelled everyone else even in his farewell address, combining sentimentality with humour. He returned home somewhat depressed. The first thing he did was to order his servant to remove the MP sticker from the windscreen of his car. In a few days he would receive a notice to surrender the official bungalow to some new Member of Parliament. He had never used the bungalow in the six years he had it, but where would his Minister and dear friend go to entertain his lady friends now? Zora was concerned. The man had not as much as rung him up in the last two months. Perhaps he had made some other bandobast.

  As anticipated, a few days later Zora received a notice to hand over possession of the official bungalow by the end of the month. The same evening his Minister rang up. ‘Zora, my friend, I have some good news for you. You will be happy to know that the Cabinet has agreed to honour you with the title of Bharat Ratna, the highest honour the nation can bestow on anyone. With it comes the bungalow. You may hang on to it for the rest of your life. There. Are you satisfied?’

  Zora was overcome with emotion. ‘Thank you, oh sir, thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please give my wife the news, please, could you tell her—’ Zora broke down as he handed the phone to Eeshran. He continued to sob, ‘Bharat Ratna. Bharat Ratna for poor, undeserving Zora Singh. Blessed be Wahguru. Dhan Wahguru, Dhan Dhan Wahguru!’

  wanted: a son

  Devi Lal was deeply interested in God and religion. As a young man he was obsessed with the problem of existence, and argued with his
friends, the pujari of the local temple and the imam of the nearby mosque. Was there really a God, he asked. When assured that there was, he wanted to know if God was truly almighty, all-knowing, just and merciful. When assured that God was all that, he asked, ‘Then why is there so much injustice in the world?’ He got different answers from different people. Some said that people suffered because of the bad karmas of their past lives. Others explained that suffering was in fact a gift from the Almighty, since those who remained steadfast in their devotion to Him despite all trials were assured of a place in heaven. Yet others maintained that the world was Maya, an illusion created by God, and suffering, too, was mere illusion. None of these explanations satisfied young Devi Lal. He was more inclined to believe that while God was the power that kept the world going, He was neither good nor bad but supremely indifferent to what happened to individuals—why some were born with brains, enjoyed good health and prosperity and begot sons, while others were born dim-witted or diseased, remained poor all their lives and begot daughters. He was a whimsical God, Devi Lal concluded, a Vadda be-parvah, as Guru Nanak had called him—the Supreme One who could not care less.

  This was what Devi Lal believed through much of his youth. But by the autumn of his life, he was convinced that God was indeed just and kind, even if his ways were sometimes inscrutable. This is the story of how Devi Lal became a believer.

  *

  Devi Lal’s father taught Urdu and history in a government school on the outskirts of Jalandhar. He was acknowledged as a great scholar of Punjabi history and an honest and upright man, but that did not translate into any riches or professional success. He received no patronage from the local princes nor from the British, whom he admired, and was superseded thrice to the post of headmaster. Devi Lal had grown up seeing him struggle to meet the needs of his family of a wife and four children, three boys and a girl, of whom Devi Lal was the youngest. All their relatives were much better off and looked down on them. This made Devi Lal angry with God. But when he himself received a scholarship after his matric examination to go to college, he was willing to give the Almighty the benefit of the doubt.

  After graduation from the DAV College in Jalandhar in 1951, Devi Lal got a job as a draftsman in the office of the architect commissioned to design Chandigarh, the new capital of Punjab. He drew a respectable salary of two hundred rupees and worked with Chief Architect Le Corbusier and his assistant Pierre Jeanneret. They only spoke French, which Devi Lal did not understand, but this was never an impediment. They liked his work and often patted him on his back. So did their English colleagues Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew. Jane often remarked: ‘Devi Lal is the best draftsman in Shandy Ghaar.’ Indian architects agreed with their verdict. Devi Lal got rapid promotions and became the head draftsman by the time he was twenty-six. All this was good; he could not have hoped for better.

  A year later he received a marriage proposal. The girl was Janaki, a little too homely in appearance. He was unhappy about this, but acceded to his parents’ wishes. Besides, she was the only daughter of well-to-do parents and brought a substantial dowry with her, including a brand new motorcycle and fifty thousand rupees in cash. If someone up there had dashed his hopes of a beautiful life partner, he had also provided adequate compensation. Devi Lal decided this was a reasonable bargain. ‘What will I do with a beautiful film star that I can’t do with my plain-looking Janaki?’ he told his friends. ‘She is gentle and obedient. She never raises her voice when speaking to me.’

  Devi Lal lived in bachelor’s quarters provided by the Chandigarh administration. With his savings and the money brought by Janaki, he was able to buy a plot of land in Mohali, a satellite town being built alongside Chandigarh. At the time, prices of land were low and building contractors were eager to provide material and labour at cost price to people who could help them earn more contracts. Jeanneret, who had become a friend, designed a neat three-bedroom bungalow as a wedding gift. The bungalow was ready for occupation in six months. Devi Lal spent the cash remaining from Janaki’s dowry to furnish it. He named his home Janaki Villa.

  Janaki was proud and happy to be Devi’s wife. She kept a good home and was very caring about her husband’s needs. As a Hindu wife she never displayed wantonness but whenever her husband desired sex she complied by laying herself on her bed, undoing the cord of her salwar and opening her thighs to him. She did not particularly enjoy sex but had been told by her mother that when her man wanted it she should comply. She had come to him as a virgin and was prepared for the pain while being deflowered; the nights that followed were then easier to endure. She had not been told about women’s orgasms and never had one. In the fourth month of her marriage she was pregnant. That was good. She prayed that she would bear her husband a son. She made offerings at the Hanuman temple and asked Bajrang Bali to give her a male child. God gave her a daughter. That was not so good. She felt she had let her husband down. Though Devi Lal had also wished for a son, he consoled Janaki: ‘If God in his wisdom has given us a baby girl, it is best to accept her as His gift. I am sure she will grow up to be as sensible and dutiful as you.’ They named their daughter Savitri.

  Devi Lal abstained from sex for six months while Savitri was being breast-fed and then he could hold out no longer. Three months later Janaki was pregnant again. This time she prayed at the Krishna temple, made offerings to the Lord with the flute, the beloved of cows and milkmaids, to bless her with a son. However, the second child was also a daughter. Janaki felt she had let her husband down again. Devi Lal consoled her again, though with less conviction in his words than before: ‘I’ve told you, Bhagwan decides what is best. A second daughter could well be as good as a second son.’ They named the girl Leela.

  Janaki was relieved that her husband took it so well. However, she was determined to give him a son. When they resumed having sex, she put more zest into it than she had before. She felt, because her worried mother and sullen mother-in-law told her so, that perhaps she had not kept her husband happy in bed and had deserved the punishment she got. So now she would strip herself of all her clothes before she lay down and take her husband in a tight embrace when he mounted her. She would meet him halfway as he pushed into her. And now that she did this, she found that she enjoyed sex as she had never done before. Devi Lal, too, liked the less inhibited Janaki and turned what had till then been a ritual into a sensual feat.

  After a few months Janaki was pregnant yet again. This time she decided to seek the blessings of the Sikh God Wahguru who she was told answered devotees’ prayers without fail. She was familiar with Sikh rituals, since her parents often visited gurdwaras and had taken her along with them before she was married. She found the hymn-singing very pleasant and the recitation from the holy Granth Sahib more orderly than the clanging of temple bells and the loud chanting of Sanskrit shlokas that no one understood. She visited the neighbourhood gurdwara every day, sometimes accompanied by her husband, to listen to the morning service, asa-di-var. Every week she donated eleven rupees to the free langar run by the gurdwara.

  When her third child was born and she asked the nurse, ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ and the nurse picked up the newborn and replied, ‘Bibi, it is a very cute little baby girl’, Janaki broke down. This time a bitterly disappointed Devi Lal advised her to simply resign herself to her fate: ‘It was written in our stars to have daughters. There is nothing you can do. You cannot defy kismet. We’ll make the best of a bad deal.’ They named the third child Naina Devi, after the goddess who lives atop a hill.

  Devi Lal made his peace with a fickle God. There was no use expecting anything from Him. It would be a struggle to arrange dowries for three daughters. He decided not to take any more chances. In any event, his desire for sex had abated and Janaki no longer encouraged him to indulge in it. Whenever the urge overcame him, she obliged. But he took the precaution of withdrawing as soon as he felt the climax approaching. Janaki never questioned or complained, but he felt constrained to explain, so every once in a while he reminded
her of the family-planning slogans broadcast over All India Radio: Do, ya teen, bas (Two or three are enough). ‘We’ve had our three, so it is bas for us,’ he would say. ‘Chhota parivaar, sukhi parivaar. We are a small and happy family.’ Devi Lal began to spend more time at work than at home, and Janaki began to make frequent short trips to her parents’ home in Chandigarh with the girls. The two of them did not spend as much time together as they used to in the first few years of their marriage.

  For eight years Devi Lal restricted sex to once a fortnight—coitus interruptus. Then he presumed that Janaki had passed the age of pregnancy and became careless. She was thirty-seven when she conceived for the fourth time. ‘Hey Ram!’ she exclaimed. ‘What will people say—this buddhi goes on breeding! I don’t want another child. Take me to a doctor and have me aborted.’

  Devi Lal had strong views against abortion. ‘That will be murder and I can’t have that on my conscience,’ he told his wife. ‘If I have to marry off three daughters I can as well marry off four.’ Then he put the onus on Janaki: ‘You decide what you want to do.’ Janaki did not have the stomach for it, so Devi Lal braced himself for another blow from the Vadda be-parvah.

  This time Janaki did not visit any temple or gurdwara nor make any offerings. Eight months and sixteen days after she became pregnant, her fourth child was born. It was a son. The husband and wife could not believe their luck. That very afternoon, Devi Lal sent packets of sweets to all his colleagues in the office, his friends and relations. ‘Strange are the ways of God,’ he said to his wife. ‘He never fails to surprise me.’

  They named the boy Raj Kumar, the prince. The girls were as thrilled with him as their parents. They rushed back from school to play with him. Every morning Janaki put a large black dot made of soot on his forehead to ward off evil eyes. Every other evening he was taken out to Sukhna lake, and the girls took turns pushing his pram, imitating his gurgles and using baby language to make him smile. Their parents, strolling right behind them, looked on indulgently. They were as happy a family as any in Chandigarh.