Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  After two years of the couple’s posting in Chandigarh and two years of love-making with condoms, the parents on either side started dropping hints about wanting a grandson. At first Baljit put them off with a smile, ‘What’s the great hurry? We have plenty of time.’ But her own mother was most insistent and said to her, ‘Young women bear healthy children; middle-aged women’s children are often sickly. And if you give your husband a son now he won’t stray even when you are not so young. Youth leaves you in the blink of an eye, puttar.’

  Baljit was persuaded. She put it to her husband. Raj Kumar thought about it, then said, ‘Why not? If it’s okay with you it’s okay with me.’ He stopped buying condoms. Sex became more pleasurable. Baljit consulted medical books, including one which guaranteed male children if conception took place within certain days after the menstrual cycle was over. She told Raj Kumar about this. He obliged, at times doing his duty four nights running. But nothing happened. Baljit consulted a gynaecologist. She was pronounced fit. ‘If you have been taking contraceptive pills or your husband has been using condoms for a long time, it can take a while to conceive. Be patient,’ the doctor assured her.

  Another four months passed without success. Baljit began to get anxious. Without telling Raj Kumar, she had a seven-day recitation of the Granth Sahib performed at a local gurdwara and made a donation to the free kitchen. It had no effect. Again without telling her husband she had a havan and puja performed at the Krishna temple. This too failed. ‘What’s wrong with us?’ she asked her husband one evening over drinks. ‘We have been fucking away like rabbits without contraceptives and yet no babalog. I saw a gynaecologist, she said I was okay. What about you?’ He replied angrily, ‘What about me? I am more than okay. I have a medical test every year. Fit as a fiddle, says the MO.’ Raj Kumar had, in fact, already sent a sample of his sperm for examination and been assured that the spermatozoa were alive and kicking, anxious to enter female ova.

  Baljit recalled that once they had visited the dargah of a Muslim saint in Delhi and seen coloured strings tied around the marble trellis encircling the grave. When Baljit had asked the caretaker what they were meant to be he had explained, ‘Mannat. Worshippers tie these strings as a pledge to give something in charity when their wish is fulfilled. It is usually women who want children who come here. People who are sick also come to be healed and read the fateha prayer.’ At the time Baljit had listened with a bemused smile on her face. Now she was willing to believe.

  There were many dargahs around Chandigarh. Baljit had driven past them but never entered one. There was one on the way to the police training school for junior cadres, on a ridge facing the Mughal Gardens in Pinjore. She was curious about the place as she had seen it grow from a nondescript tomb to one with a neat green dome over it and a platform outside with wooden benches. One evening, after inspecting the training school, she asked the driver to pull up outside and entered the mausoleum. A tall young man in a green lungi and kurta and with a shaggy, black beard and shaved upper lip appeared from nowhere and greeted her, ‘Salaam, Bibi.’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Baljit.

  ‘Huzoor, I am the caretaker of the mazaar. I offer prayers on behalf of anyone who comes to pay respects to Peer Sahib’s tomb.’

  ‘Who was Peer Sahib?’

  ‘I don’t know much about him, ji, except that he was a saintly man and granted the wishes of anyone who came to him for help. I have been newly appointed to this place by the Waqf Board. It pays me very little and this is a very lonely place. Actually, whenever anyone comes here, I get a lot of sukoon. Otherwise my heart is troubled. I am thankful to you for coming.’

  Baljit looked him up and down. He was a rascally-looking young fellow with thick lips and lecherous eyes. In turn he combed his black beard with his fingers and looked at Baljit up and down, from her cropped hair to her feet, letting his gaze linger at her breasts. ‘Bibi, if you wish I will recite the fateha for you, and Peer Sahib will fulfil your muraad.’

  Baljit nodded. The young man sat down on his knees with his feet tucked beneath his buttocks and raised the palms of his hands in front of his face as if reading its lines. He intoned: Bismillah-e-Rahman-e-Rahim, Al hamdu lillah Rabbul alameen ...’ He brushed his face with his hands and asked, ‘What is it that you wish for?’

  Without hesitating Baljit replied, ‘Aulad, preferably a son.’

  The man turned to the Peer’s grave: ‘Ya Peer! Plead with Allah, the granter of all wishes, to give this woman a son.’

  Baljit opened her handbag, fished out a twenty-rupee note and handed it to the man.

  ‘Please wait a minute. You must take some prasad,’ he said and hurried to his one-room quarters. He came back with a small newspaper packet. It contained pellets of sweetened rice and sesame seeds. Baljit took it with both her hands, and as she left, the caretaker advised, ‘Bibi, if you wish your murad to be fulfilled you should come again to the Peer Sahib to invoke Allah’s blessings. And to give this lonely slave of Allah some sukoon.’

  Baljit got into her car and told the driver to take her home. She ate a bit of the prasad. It was soggy and oversweet and left a sickly taste in her mouth. She threw the packet out of the car. She did not tell Raj Kumar about her visit to the dargah.

  A week later she was back. This time she drove her own car, without the tell-tale red light on the bonnet. The caretaker was delighted to see her. He went over the ritual of reciting the fateha and giving her a packet of sweet rice. This time she raised the offering to fifty-five rupees. ‘If my murad is fulfilled, I will offer a lot more,’ she said as she left. She put the prasad in her mouth but spat it out as soon as she left the dargah.

  The monsoon set in. That year Chandigarh got more than its usual share of rain. Many roads were flooded. Many cars got stuck in knee-deep water. There was not much traffic on the road. Baljit took out her car and told the police driver that she did not want him as she was only going to the neighbouring sector to call on a friend. Rain or no rain, she had to keep her tryst with the Peer Sahib. Driving through the rain, she recalled Shaikh Farid’s lines and smiled to herself:

  O Farid, the street is full of mud

  And my Lover’s home is far away;

  If I go my garments will get wet

  It will be false to my Love if I stay;

  I care not if my clothes get wet

  It is Allah who sends down rain;

  I will go to see my Lover

  Never will I let my Love down, come what may.

  The rain intensified. Passing vehicles splattered muddy water on her windscreen. She carried no umbrella and her clothes were wet when she entered the mazaar. There was no one there. She stood at the entrance door and shouted, ‘Koi hai?’

  The bearded man’s face appeared at the door of his quarters. ‘Abhee aaya,’ he shouted back and disappeared again. A minute later he emerged with a gunny sack over his head carrying a packet of prasad in his hand and ran across the open courtyard to the mazaar. ‘This is true love,’ he remarked as he lowered himself on his knees to recite the fateha. ‘The Peer Sahib will surely grant your wishes for coming to him in the rain and mud.’

  After the fateha the man handed over the packet of prasad. She gave him a hundred-rupee note. ‘Bibi, you better eat the prasad here and let your clothes get dry before you leave.’

  Baljit put some prasad in her mouth. It tasted different. She suspected the rascal had mixed something in it. Perhaps a little bhang, or maybe opium. She did not care. She began to feel drowsy. ‘I feel very tired,’ she mumbled. ‘Can I lie down here?’

  ‘You may. Some people sleep here all night.’

  Baljit lay down near the grave. Sleep overtook her. Sometime later, she felt the man’s hands stroke her body. It was a pleasant feeling. She felt his fingers untie the knot of her salwar and pull it down to her ankles. She did not mind. She felt him lift her shirt to her shoulders, undo her bra and take her breasts in his mouth. He sucked like a hungry cub and her nipples went hard. She fe
lt him kiss her all over her face and neck. His beard and the stubble on his upper lip felt good. Then he rubbed and patted her thighs with his rough hands and pushed them apart. She heard a rustle of clothes and felt his hard, heavy body crush hers as he entered her. She had gone moist. His penis was much bigger than Raj Kumar’s and kept going in till she felt it was well inside her belly. He moved in and out gently at first and then in a frenzy. She had not known anything like this before. She began to moan and shudder. She had one orgasm, then another. But he had not finished. He came with her third orgasm, grunting softly. He dismounted quickly. In her half-sleep she felt his hands pull up her salwar and re-tie the knot, then adjust her bra and pull down her shirt. She did not open her eyes till half an hour later. ‘I fell asleep,’ she lied. ‘I hope I will be forgiven.’

  ‘Allah is forgiving,’ he replied. ‘Bibi, I hope I will have your deedar again. What you wish for needs a lot of prayer.’

  Baljit promised to come back in a few days. She was unsteady on her feet as she got back into her car. Her clothes were still wet. The drizzle had not stopped. She rolled down the window of the car and let the gentle rain fall on her face.

  When she got home, Raj Kumar’s parents were sitting in the drawing room having tea. ‘Beta, all your clothes are wet. Where have you been in the rain? Change your clothes and have a hot cup of tea or you will catch a chill.’

  ‘The car stalled on the road. I had to get out in the rain to see what was wrong and fix it. I’ll change in a minute and join you. Is Raj back yet?’

  ‘He rang up to say he may be a little late,’ replied Devi Lal.

  Baljit ran up to her room. She shed her wet clothes, dried herself and got into a fresh salwar-kameez. She washed her face in cold water to get rid of her drowsiness, brushed her hair vigorously, put some fresh lipstick on, dabbed her neck and shoulders with eau-de-cologne and joined her in-laws for tea. ‘I’ll rest a while to get the chill out of my system. Tell Raj to wake me up when he gets back,’ she said after tea and went back to her room. She lay on her bed and was soon fast asleep. By the time Raj Kumar came back two hours later she was as fresh as a lotus opening its petals to the rising sun.

  She laid out the whiskey. ‘I got such a drenching! I need a stiff one,’ she said. He poured her a large one and took his usual small peg. The whiskey had never tasted better to her. It warmed her and set up a nice buzz in her head. She felt on top of the world. She was always a cheerful person but rarely as cheerful as she was that evening. Raj Kumar sensed that she would expect him to perform his conjugal duty. He did, and both enjoyed it, more than they had in a long time.

  Baljit craved for more favours from the Peer Sahib. She knew she was taking awful risks. There was the CRPF group centre in the valley right across the dargah where junior policemen did their training. All of them recognized her. So did the Punjab and Chandigarh Police. But she was like a tigress who had tasted human blood and thirsted for more. A week later she was at the dargah again. The caretaker saw her pull up her car under a tree where it could not be seen from the road. He quickly got out a board and put it near the door of the little mausoleum. It read in four languages—Urdu, Gurmukhi, Hindi and English: ‘The caretaker is on leave for the day. Please put your offerings in the wooden box beside the Peer Sahib’s tomb.’ He greeted Baljit with an openly lecherous smile: ‘Bibi, it has been a long time since you turned your steps this way. I thought you had forgotten your humble servant. Come this way,’ he said.

  Baljit followed him to his quarters. He unlocked the door and let her inside. All it had was a charpai with a dirty quilt spread over it and a dirtier pillow at one end, a pitcher in a corner with a metal mug dangling on its rim, and an oil lamp in an alcove. There was a window almost at level with the hillside, and a wooden slab to shut it. The caretaker asked Baljit to be seated on the charpai while he shut the door from the outside. He took a lock and key. She heard him lock the door and came back in through the window and shut it. He lit the oil lamp: a faint amber glow lit up the dingy room. Then, without much ado, he sat by Baljit. He took her in his arms and put his mouth against hers. His beard and whiskers pricked her. She pushed him away and said, ‘Your hair’s so prickly!’ He laughed and put his hand between her legs and massaged her crotch. He fumbled with her salwar knot. She helped him to open it and pulled the garment down. He pulled it completely off her legs. She understood and took off her kameez, undid her bra and tossed it to a side. She was stark naked. ‘Subhaan Allah!’ the caretaker exclaimed. ‘No hoor could be more beautiful.’ He took off his kurta to reveal a broad and hairy chest, then he undid the knot of his lungi, pulled it off and flung it away. Baljit had never seen a circumcised penis. She ran her fingers over the swollen, smooth head of the long shaft. Without a word, the caretaker pushed her on her back and moved on top of her, resting his hands on either side of the charpai. She threw her legs apart wide and high for him and he slid smoothly into her. ‘This is Jannat!’ he said as he smothered her face with passionate kisses. They went on for more than half an hour till Baljit began to moan. She dug her nails into his scalp and cried, ‘You are killing me,’ and came. He was bathed in sweat and continued thrusting and pounding till she came a second time and then she felt his hot sperm flood her inside.

  He got up, drew water from his pitcher and washed his penis and pubis. She lay where she was without bothering to cover her nakedness. He came and lay beside her. He realized she wanted more and he knew he wanted to give it to her. An hour later she began to play with his penis. He was aroused again. They went through the act a second time. It lasted over an hour till both were exhausted. From the chinks in the door and the window they could see the daylight fading. The caretaker dressed hastily, opened the window and peered outside to make sure no one was about. He jumped out and unlocked the door. Baljit slipped on her clothes and walked to her car. He moved the notice board and lit the oil lamp for the Peer Sahib’s grave.

  Baljit paid three more visits to the mazaar. She knew that if she did not stop soon, it was only a matter of time before someone noticed and guessed the reason. That would be the end of her marriage and possibly her career as well. The last time she went to the dargah, she spent a couple of hours with the caretaker in his dark hovel. Before leaving she sat with him by the grave of the Peer Sahib and while he recited the fateha she prayed for forgiveness. She swore to herself she would never visit the dargah again.

  The following month she missed her period.

  She did not tell Raj Kumar nor her in-laws. She wasn’t sure if she was pregnant, but just to be sure, made Raj Kumar make love to her three nights running.

  She missed her second period. Janaki heard her retch and throw up one morning. She asked her directly, ‘Beta, are you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, Mataji. This is the second time I have missed my periods. I will go and see the doctor.’

  The gynaecologist examined her and pronounced her pregnant. Raj Kumar was excited at the prospect of having a son: he had been having sex on days prescribed by the medical book which ensured a male child if its instructions were followed to the letter. Baljit abstained from sex after the fourth month of her pregnancy. Although her gynaecologist assured her there was no danger of a miscarriage if she continued having sex for a month or more, she did not want to take any chances. Raj Kumar too had become somewhat complacent as he felt he had done the job expected of him.

  It became awkward for Baljit to fit into her police uniform. She applied for six months’ maternity leave. The child inside her began to move and often kicked vigorously. She patted her belly gently and spoke to it to be patient.

  As the date of delivery approached, Janaki became nervous. She was afraid that history might repeat itself. What if Raj Kumar and Baljit’s first child turned out to be a daughter? She told her husband about her fears and wondered if they should perform a puja in the Krishna temple. Devi Lal had been keeping a careful record of the curses and gifts that God had showered on him. All in all,
it had been a good life, but now was the time to truly test the Almighty. He wagered: ‘I can tell you that God will give us a grandson, regardless of whether we perform the puja or not.’

  Exactly on time, at the end of the ninth month, Baljit started getting labour pains. Her husband drove her to the maternity ward of the PGI hospital. Two hours later, she delivered a child. It was a son.

  Baljit was happy that her visits to the dargah had borne fruit. Raj Kumar and Janaki were thrilled. But the happiest of them all was Devi Lal. He now had no doubt whatsoever that God was merciful.

  the mulberry tree

  Vijay Lall was an early riser. He awoke to the harsh cawing of the first crows, and when he drew the curtains of his study window, he could see nothing except street lights glimmering in the distance. During the last few mornings of the waning moon, the apartment blocks around the square patch of lawn in his colony were bathed in soft moonlight. Then they made a pleasant sight. But at all other times they looked squat, staid and lifeless, like middle-aged women who had let themselves go. For some years now, the hour or two before sunrise was the only time he could gaze out of his window without being mildly irritated by what he saw.

  Facing his window was a large mulberry tree, which had been planted at the time the apartment blocks were built and was over fifty years old, perhaps exactly as old as he. Vijay had developed a special relationship with this tree. Most of the winter it was without any leaves and its dry branches stuck out like the quills of a giant porcupine. During these months only the crows and sparrows visited it. Their cawing and twittering were his dawn chorus. Sometime in mid-February, usually the eighteenth, he noticed tiny green specks sprout from the seemingly dead brown branches. In recent years he had been watching out for this event and noted it down carefully in his diary. A week after they first became visible, the green specks turned into green leaves. And as spring turned to summer, the tree was covered with so thick a foliage that he could not see the branches. It became host to a variety of birds. Even before the eastern horizon turned grey and the call for the Fajr prayer floated in from the tall minaret of the mosque across the road, a family of spotted owlets set up a racket—chitter-chitter-chatter-chatter—and roused the crows and sparrows roosting there for the night. Then came the green barbets. They wound themselves up with a low kook-kook-kook before exploding into an incessant katrook-katrook. Most afternoons koels, as shy as barbets, hid behind the foliage and called intermittently till the sun went down and the call for the Maghrib prayer rose from the mosque. As it got dark, the spotted owlets set up their racket again, which was a signal that it was time for his sundowner.