Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘We have quite a selection for his age group,’ replied the young proprietress. The proprietress was a tall and attractive young girl who wore a diamond nose pin. She reminded Vijay of another girl he had known in his youth whom he had wanted vaguely to spend the rest of his life with, but the romance had fizzled out at the prospect of marriage.

  ‘What are his interests?’ she asked the woman. ‘Stamps, photography, wildlife, shikar, computers?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He reads a bit of everything. Perhaps good fiction . . . about wildlife?’

  ‘What about Joy Adamson’s Born Free, about her pet lioness Elsa?’

  ‘I think he read that a couple of years back.’

  Vijay heard himself say, ‘Why not Kipling’s Jungle Book? It has all kinds of animals: Sher Khan, the tiger, Baloo, the bear. And there is Mowgli, the wolf-boy.’

  The woman turned towards him, ‘You must be kidding! That is kid’s stuff. He read it when he learned to read English.’ To soften the snub she beamed a smile at him.

  Vijay persisted. ‘What about Jim Corbett’s books on his encounters with man-eating tigers and leopards?’

  ‘He has read all of Corbett’s books,’ replied the woman, cutting him short.

  Vijay did not give up. He was feeling a little reckless. ‘I bet he hasn’t read Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals.’

  The girl from the shop lent her support. ‘It has long been one of our best-sellers, ma’am. I’m sure the young man will enjoy it as well.’

  So it was Durrell’s book that won the evening. Both the women thanked Vijay for suggesting it. He felt strangely elated. The woman paid for the book and as she was leaving, turned to Vijay and said, ‘Thanks for everything. Goodnight.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he beamed like a schoolboy.

  On his second drink later that evening, Vijay found himself thinking of the woman and felt restless. The mellow, quiet feeling of the past had vanished. Had it been a mistake to talk to her? He knew that he could not follow her around silently as he used to. He had crossed an invisible line and now he must get to know her better. He decided that he would do so. He was aware that she must be at least twenty, perhaps twenty-five years younger than him, and he could be snubbed badly, but life was too short not to take chances. The thought of taking chances excited him.

  Vijay ran into her again three days later. He was not sure if she recognized him. He took the liberty of greeting her and asked, ‘So, how did you like Durrell?’

  She gave him a broad smile and replied, ‘Hi there! Enjoyed it hugely—both of us. Thanks for suggesting it.’

  ‘You live around here?’ he asked. ‘I see you almost every other evening.’

  ‘Not far. I like to do my shopping here. I can get everything I want, and it is so cheerful. And you?’

  ‘I live in the block of flats across the road. A poky little flat crammed with books. I have no other hobbies. I’m a boring man. I’ll be honoured if you’ll drop by some evening for a cup of chai or whatever.’

  ‘Thanks, but not today,’ she replied brusquely. ‘I may take you up on your invitation some other time. Nice meeting you.’ She extended her hand to bid him farewell. It was the first time he touched her. He liked the feel of her soft, warm hand. He wanted to hold it for longer but she did not encourage him. Pulling her hand out of his discreetly, she said, ‘See you. I must get things before the shops close.’ And she disappeared in the crowd of shoppers.

  Another surprise awaited Vijay in his pursuit of his newfound passion. One afternoon he was loitering in the Masjid Nursery looking at plants for sale. There were three such nurseries close to his apartment. Although he bought nothing as he had not enough space in his flat for plants, he liked looking at them, finding out their names and prices. Masjid Nursery, so named because it was next to a mosque, had the largest display of flowers and cacti. While he was going around the nursery, he spotted the woman come to the mosque. She came on foot, there was no sign of her car. She took her sandals off at the entrance and went in. Vijay had assumed that she was Hindu; what was she doing in a mosque? Perhaps he was wrong. But then, Muslim women did not come to pray in mosques. Perhaps her son was at the madrasa reading the Quran and she had come to pick him up. Vijay hung around in the nursery for over half an hour. He heard the call for the Maghrib prayer. Men trooped in, taking their shoes inside with them, and fifteen minutes later, streamed out. It began to turn dark. Vijay could not hold his curiosity much longer. He went up to the entrance of the mosque. Only the lady’s bright red sandals lay close to the threshold. He peered in. There was a lone man sitting close to the pulpit, reciting from the Quran. To his right was another small door. Possibly she had entered from the main door and left by the side door, forgetting about her sandals. Vijay paused for a few moments, then picked up the sandals and brought them home.

  It was a curious, inexplicable sense of triumph—like a scientist making a breakthrough in his research for the lodestone by which base metal could be turned into gold. He now had an excuse to invite her to his flat and get to know her name, to find out who she was and what she did. He put the sandals in a gap in one of his book shelves, next to the leather-bound volumes of Inferno, Don Quixote and Rubaiyat that were his prized possessions. Strange things were happening to Vijay Lall.

  The next three evenings he went to the market and spent longer than usual going around the shops. The raunaq of Khan Market was no longer enough. He waited, but there was no sign of her. He bought two packets of cigarettes and a couple of paans. He wandered agitatedly for some time. He returned home defeated.

  He was luckier on the fourth day. Returning from The Book Shop with copies of Outlook and India Today, he saw her coming towards him with a bag full of groceries. She was barefoot. Vijay stopped right in front of her and greeted her.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Hi there,’ she replied with a distant smile.

  ‘What’s happened to your red sandals?’ he asked.

  She looked down at her bare feet, as if noticing them for the first time, and replied, ‘I have lost them. How did you know they were red?’

  ‘I am a very observant man. You must not walk barefoot on these dirty roads and pavements. You might step on a sharp pebble or piece of glass. Surely you must have other footwear at home?’

  ‘Nope. Maybe I should buy a new pair.’

  ‘You can save your money. I have your sandals in my flat.’

  She looked him full in the face, visibly alarmed. ‘In your flat? Where did you find them? And how did you know they were mine?’

  ‘I am observant and I am also a good spy,’ he replied. ‘I happened to be in the Masjid Nursery when I saw you take off your sandals and go into the mosque. You probably went out by the side door forgetting about them. I picked them up and took them home. I’ve taken good care of them. Don’t you want them back?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replied. Her brow gathered in a frown. ‘I’ll send my driver to pick them up when I’m done with my shopping. Where do you live?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I will return your sandals only to you and no one else. I’ve told you, I live just across the road. Besides, you might forget to send the driver. I can tell that you are very absent-minded.’

  He half expected to be told to buzz off. But she seemed to like what she heard and smiled. ‘That I am. A little off my rocker, as they say. Eccentric and moody.’

  ‘Sounds charming. So, do I have the pleasure of your company?’

  She laughed and nodded her head. He accompanied her to her car. She asked her driver to turn around and take her and the sahib to the block of flats across the road. They had no conversation in the car as Vijay kept instructing the driver where to turn to park the car. ‘Wait for a few minutes,’ she told the driver as they stepped out. Vijay opened the door of his flat and ushered her in.

  She looked around the room. ‘Books, books, books. You could not have read them all.’

  ‘No, it will take more th
an a lifetime to read all of them. I just like surrounding myself with books. Do be seated,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. ‘I’ll get your sandals.’

  She sat down. She looked sheepishly at her dirty feet resting on the expensive Bukhara carpet. ‘I’m afraid I’ll dirty your kaaleen,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, it has suffered much worse,’ he assured her. ‘Stay right where you are, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Vijay came back not with her shoes but a basin of water and a towel thrown over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s this for?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘You’ll find out,’ he replied. ‘See what a mess your feet are—black with gravel and dust. Put them in the basin, I’ll clean them.’

  A look of alarm returned to her face, but she submitted tamely and put her feet in the basin. The water was warm. He pulled a moorha and sat in front of her. ‘Relax,’ he said gently. She leaned back, rested her head on the blue sofa and shut her eyes. He soaped her feet and sponged them. He took his own time doing this. Then moving the basin out of his way, he put her feet on his knees by turns and rubbed them with a towel. ‘Lovely arches,’ he said, kneading her feet with his thumbs. ‘You may open your eyes. See how clean and soft they look.’

  She opened her eyes. She saw the basin full of muddy black water and her feet looking fresh and clean. The thin gold chain around her right ankle was gleaming after the wash. So was the silver ring she wore on one of her toes. ‘You seem to be a nice gentleman. But why are you doing all this for me?’ she asked. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘All in good time,’ he replied with a grin. He picked up the basin of dirty water and soapsuds and took it to his bathroom, poured down its contents in the loo and pulled the flush. He washed his hands and came back with the red sandals. Once again he sat on the moorha facing her and slipped the sandals on her feet. ‘Don’t go about leaving them at the doorsteps of mosques again. They may never come back. Even I might not return them the next time, since they’ve brought me good luck.’

  ‘What do you mean? What luck have they brought you?’

  ‘Made you visit my poky den. I hope not for the first time, or the last.’

  She blushed and brushed the hair off her forehead. ‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said, looking straight at him.

  ‘Vijay. And yours?’

  ‘Karuna.’

  ‘Karuna, meaning compassion. A lovely name. But Karuna what?’

  ‘Karuna, that’s all,’ she said curtly.

  ‘I only asked because I am curious. You have a Hindu name, so what were you doing in a mosque?’

  ‘Nosey, aren’t we? Anyway, if it is so important for you to know, I went because I had never seen the inside of a mosque.’ She rose abruptly. ‘I must go home now. Thanks for everything. I still don’t know why you took all the trouble, though.’ He walked her to the door. He hoped to linger there a while, to hold her back, but she was in no mood to oblige. ‘Bye,’ she said without turning back as she hurried away. He heard her car start up and go out of his block of apartments.

  An odd character, this Karuna woman! mused Vijay. She was obviously somewhat soft in the head. Or why would a woman who went about in a chauffeur-driven car not buy herself a new pair of sandals and go about barefoot instead? She probably had a well-to-do husband and children. How was it that none of them bothered to notice her waywardness?

  More difficult to explain was his sudden desire to get to know her. She was clearly unpredictable—warm and approachable one moment, brusque and distant the next. He would normally not have any patience with such people—he never did, and years of living alone had made him even less tolerant. But despite her erratic behaviour his infatuation with Karuna kept getting stronger. He was not entirely sure of what he wanted: Was he content to just have her around him to talk to and touch furtively once in a while? Or did he want her in his bed for wild sex, the kind he had not experienced in years? All that he was certain of was that the days when he did not see her were unreal and incomplete. Now he found himself thinking: The episode of the lost-and-found sandals must have conveyed my feelings for her. Will she respond?

  He went to Khan Market every evening. He pottered around in The Book Shop, looking disinterestedly at new books. He peered inside other bookstores, the grocer’s and the butcher’s. She was nowhere. Then one evening, for no reason, he went to the Krishna temple at the rear of the market. It was time for the sandhya prayer. The scent of agar incense floated out of the temple and through the clanging of bells he could hear worshippers sing Jai Jagdish Hare! He had never been inside a temple before, or any place of worship for that matter, but something compelled him to enter the courtyard and take a closer look at what was going on. One side of the courtyard was lined with the shoes and chappals of worshippers. A caretaker sat on a stool keeping watch over them. In the second row was a pair of red sandals that Vijay recognized so well. He stayed in the courtyard till the prayer was over and worshippers started streaming out with prasad in their palms. As she stepped out of the crowd, he accosted her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘One evening at a mosque, another evening at a temple.’

  ‘Hi there!’ she responded. ‘And what are you doing loitering outside?’

  ‘I spotted the red sandals but could not steal them. That man with the stick had his hawk eyes on them. So I thought I might wait for their owner and invite her for a cup of tea or coffee.’

  ‘You may not,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘I have another date.’ She took a quick glance at her wristwatch. ‘Omigod! I’m half an hour late!’ She slipped on her sandals and ran across the road to her car.

  A month after his miraculous escape from death, Vijay heard of another miracle but did not witness it, though it happened no further from his little flat than Khan Market’s Shri Gopal Mandir. One evening when he went there, hoping to run into the elusive Karuna, he saw a long queue, starting at the temple and snaking around the entire market. Everyone in the queue was carrying a tin can, a tumbler, a lota or a thermos flask. He did not like this disruption of the market routine; besides, all these people would make it more difficult for him to spot the object of his affection. He broke through the queue to get to The Book Shop. It was closed for some reason. Disappointed, he walked over to another bookstore, owned by an earthy, robust man who sported a thick, curled moustache, like those worn by men in advertisements for aphrodisiacs. Vijay had named him Hakim Tara Chand. The bookstore owner greeted him affably and as usual asked, ‘Some coffee-shoffee, chai-vai?’ Vijay waved a ‘No thanks’ with his hand and asked, ‘What is going on here? Who are all those people outside?’

  ‘Andh vishvas, sir,’ Hakim Tara Chand said, shaking his head but wearing an indulgent smile. ‘Apparently the gods are accepting milk from worshippers. Those people are waiting to make their offerings to the idols.’

  ‘What? Stone and metal idols drinking milk?’ Already disappointed at not having found Karuna in the market, Vijay sounded more irritated than incredulous.

  Hakim Tara Chand was taken aback by Vijay’s tone and was apologetic. ‘As I said, sir—blind faith. I know you don’t believe in these things, nor do I . . . but why deny people the right to believe in whatever they want to believe? My wife went to the temple with a jug of milk this morning and poured it on Ganeshji’s idol. The milk disappeared. Where, why, only Bhagwan knows.’

  ‘Good business for milkmen,’ sneered Vijay. ‘Who started all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. But a Hindi paper says that Shreeswamy claims he invoked Ganeshji to accept offerings of milk.’

  ‘Shreeswamy! That crook who has a dozen criminal cases pending against him and has been jailed a few times?’

  Hakim Tara Chand put his hands together and replied, ‘Forgive me, but I won’t say anything against a man who is worshipped by so many—presidents, prime ministers, multimillionaires, film stars. Every other leader of ours goes to him for advice. So I think, there must be
something to him . . . Not that I believe in these things.’

  ‘He’s said to provide call girls to Arab sheikhs.’

  ‘Tauba! Maybe the papers say so. I have no knowledge.’

  Vijay sensed Hakim Tara Chand was not keen to talk on the subject, so he moved on: ‘Achha ji, I’ll see you soon.’ He decided to go back home, but then he thought there might be some chance of finding Karuna at the temple. She seemed to have an unusual interest in places of worship. He didn’t think she herself would offer milk as the others did, but she might want to witness the spectacle. So he went along the queue around the corner facing the temple. From the way they were dressed, the people in the queue seemed middle class and educated. Marching up and down, swaying his baton, was a senior police officer in uniform, perhaps a superintendent. There was a large red tilak on his forehead, indicating that he had already made his offering. He had four of his constables with him, walking briskly along the queue and asking people not to be impatient. ‘You will get your turn,’ the officer assured the eager worshippers. ‘Be patient, the miracle will go on for some days.’ Vijay thought of asking him how he knew, but he did not want to get into an argument with a policeman.

  Pye dogs along the queue were licking up the milk that spilled out of the containers. A boy of seven or eight years was warding off a puppy jumping on his leg, wagging his tail furiously and yapping for a few drops. The boy tried to kick the puppy away and spilt some of his milk as he did so. The grateful puppy lapped it up, now wagging his tail in gratitude.

  ‘You can’t offer this milk to Shri Ganesh. It has been polluted by a dog,’ growled a man standing behind the boy. ‘Go and get another jug from the milkman.’ The boy burst into tears, poured the rest of the milk on the ground and gave the puppy a vicious kick before going off to look for fresh milk.

  Briefly distracted by the commotion, Vijay walked on towards Shri Gopal Mandir. Three constables barred the way to the road that separated the market from the temple. When those who had made their offerings came out, the policemen stopped all traffic to allow a dozen or so people from the queue to cross the road and enter the temple. Vijay came to the end of the queue. Standing right in front, awaiting her turn to cross the road, was Karuna. She had a large steel tumbler in her hand.