Paradise and Other Stories Read online

  Madan Mohan replied candidly, ‘I thank you for your kind words. I was a lecturer and not a professor. I am single but plan to get married soon.’

  The old chief looked disappointed. ‘Some of our leaders remained celibate all their lives because they wanted to devote all their time and energy to the Sangathan.’

  ‘I intend to devote myself entirely to the Sangathan, but I have to get married; I have given my word to my mother. I am her only child.’

  The chief was impressed. ‘That is very noble of you. A mother is goddess incarnate, her wishes should be treated as commands. Several of our leaders are also grihasthis. But being a householder does not mean that you are any less committed to the cause. What really counts is dedication.’

  ‘You can count on me for that,’ replied Madan Mohan, and then the thin man in khaki shorts embraced him again.

  *

  It did not take long for Madan Mohan’s mother to revive proposals they had received earlier—all from Brahmin families. As required, all of them furnished horoscopes, quite a few sent their daughters’ biodatas and photographs as well. Hari Mohan and Parvati examined the proposals first and weeded out those they considered unsuitable. They were left with a dozen which they put before their son. ‘I don’t want to see any photographs,’ he said firmly. ‘I would like to know the exact time and place of their birth so I can make my calculations and check if their horoscopes have been properly cast. It is common for parents of girls to lie about their age. I will also examine their biodatas. I expect my wife to be educated.’

  ‘We’ve seen to that,’ replied his father. ‘We rejected those who have not been to college. All these girls are graduates in something or the other: English, history, Hindi, home science. It is now for you to decide.’

  Madan Mohan took the horoscopes to his room and spread them out on the work table. From his study of the subject he had concluded that the best match for a Leo—he was a Leo—was a Taurus. Only three applicants in the lot were born under the sign. He scanned their biodatas. Two had been educated in Indian paathshalas, one was from a convent and had taken her BA degree in English literature from St John’s College, Agra—a Christian missionary college—on a scholarship. Madan Mohan thought over it. Though he set no store by knowledge of English literature, he felt that his future wife should have a good command over the language, as most books in his personal library were in English. It was also a useful asset when meeting foreigners and people who could not speak Hindi. The Christian missionary education bothered him, but he was quite certain that like many Indians of her class the girl had not really thought about the pernicious influence of the proselytizing Christians. She needed to be educated, to have her eyes opened to the truth, and he was confident he could do that. He took a second and a third look at the girl’s biodata and horoscope. She was one of the many daughters of a school teacher in Mathura. She was five years younger than him: that was ideal. Her name was Mohini Joshi.

  ‘Find out what you can about this girl Mohini Joshi,’ he told his parents. They were overjoyed. ‘Joshis are of the same class of Brahmins as us Pandeys,’ said his mother. ‘Pandey-Joshi alliances are common. Her father appears to be a man of modest means, which is better. One should not make an alliance with a family above one’s own.’

  So Pandey Senior wrote to Joshi Senior and invited him and his wife over to Delhi. A few days later the Joshis arrived at the Pandeys’ doorstep with their daughter. They were awed at the size of the bungalow and its lavishly furnished interior. They joined the palms of their hands as if in prayer and said, ‘We are humble people who have very little to give in the way of dowry, except our daughter.’ Mohini went down on her knees and touched the feet of the Pandeys. Both put their hands on her head and blessed her. ‘We are not looking for a dowry,’ said Parvati Pandey. ‘Bhagwan has given us plenty. All we want is a nice girl for our only child. He, as you know, is one in a million. He refused to join government service after being selected for it and went into the teaching profession. Now he is a full-time social worker dedicated to the service of his country.’

  Tea was ordered. Parvati asked the servant to inform Chhotey Sahib that the Joshis had arrived. Madan Mohan came down from his room, dutifully touched the Joshis’ feet and allowed Mohini to touch his. Parvati poured out the tea, asked the Joshis by turn how much sugar they liked, and had the bearer hand them their cups. She and her husband were appalled to see all three pour the tea into their saucers and slurp noisily as they sipped it. Madan Mohan was charmed: where could you meet Indians these days who drank tea out of saucers?

  There were long pauses of silence. Parvati did her best to keep the conversation going. Her husband wasn’t sure whether he should speak to them in Hindi or English. Mrs Joshi evidently didn’t speak the language and her daughter sat dumbly looking down at her feet. Madan Mohan was not much help either. He kept staring at Mohini, looking her up and down. She was certainly fair, he noted—as most Brahmins undefiled by non-Hindu blood were. She was short and petite and had long, glossy, heavily oiled hair tied up in a big bun behind her head. Her bosom was beautifully rounded, snugly ensconced in her full-sleeved blouse, and when she touched his feet, he had noticed that she had the kind of hips described in one Hindu text as ‘auspicious, child-bearing hips’. She had painted her toe nails red and wore a thin silver anklet on one foot. Mohini sensed she was being assessed and kept her head bowed. Then the impulse to see the young man who might become her husband overcame her shyness and she looked up. She thought he looked exactly like a young Brahmin rishi, one who had just had his morning dip in the icy waters of the Ganga. He looked clean and in robust health. She was pleased at the prospect of being his wife. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Her face lit up with a winsome smile. He was bowled over.

  While Hari Mohan occupied himself drinking a second cup of tea that he did not want, his wife and their son whispered into each other’s ears. Then Parvati fished out a small box of blue velvet from her handbag and handed it to Madan Mohan. He drew up a chair next to Mohini and sat down beside her. He took her left hand in his and slipped a gold ring with a diamond on her third finger. Mohini was overcome with embarrassment and could think of nothing else but to go down on the carpet and place her head between his feet like a puppy.

  The Joshis were overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘For our Mohini fate has opened the gates to heaven in all its refulgent glory,’ said the father. He said this in chaste Hindi, prompting Hari Mohan to say ‘Bas, bas,’ irritably to stop the man before he launched into Sanskrit shlokas. The mother added, addressing Parvati, ‘Behenji, we are poor people, we have very little to give you except our daughter. From now on she is your property. You are her mother.’

  Hari Mohan interrupted gruffly, ‘I told you we don’t want anything in the way of a dowry. We don’t believe in big baraats, no band baaja. It will be a simple wedding according to vedic rites as my son wishes, with the minimum of guests. I think it will be best if you come to Delhi with your immediate family. I will reserve a baraat ghar for you—there is one not far from here. You can stay there and have the havan in the garden. We will fix the day of the marriage after our son has consulted his star charts. He claims to know more about auspicious days than any astrologer.’

  The Joshis fell at the feet of the Pandeys. ‘We are mere bricks of a sewer and our daughter will adorn the top floor of a palace! Bhagwan has answered our prayers,’ said Mr Joshi with tears in his eyes. The Joshis embraced the Pandeys many times before they got onto the three-wheeler phut-phut on which they had come, to return to the inter-state bus terminal and take the bus to Mathura.

  *

  The Pandeys were pleasantly surprised that their son had so readily agreed to get married. They were confused; they had to admit that they did not really know how his mind worked. For Madan Mohan it was quite straightforward: he always went by the sacred texts. A man’s lifespan was a hundred years, divided into four equal parts. The first quarter, brahmacharya, was for study, and
during this time he had to remain celibate. Madan Mohan was twenty-four and still a virgin. He was now about to enter into grihastha—the life of a householder: acquire a wife, have children, and earn his livelihood. For this, too, there were rules, and he was following them diligently. The Kamasutra prescribed that a man should marry a woman at least three years younger than himself: Mohini was five years his junior. The Kamasutra divided men and women into three categories depending on the sizes of their genitals, and indicated which category of women made ideal wives. From the little he had seen of her, Mohini was almost certainly a mrigini, a doe—petite, slim and coy; clearly a suitable bride. She certainly could not be a mare. Nor a hasthini—a she-elephant—a woman with a large vulva and an enormous appetite for sex.

  He was not entirely sure about his own category: was he a hare, a bull or a horse? He did not like to think of himself as a hare—they were as randy as rabbits and had small penises. He had never measured his organ but its size impressed him. He could be a bull or a horse. Yes, that was most likely—though that might create problems for the petite Mohini; he would have to be gentle with her. He would adjust to her, and give her time to adjust to him, by controlling his lust like a yogi.

  *

  Madan Mohan was particular about dates. It was late in March that the Joshis had come over with their daughter and he had agreed to marry her. Since then Joshi had written twice to his father enquiring about his health and indicating that he did not believe in long engagements; as soon as their son-in-law-to-be had decided on an auspicious day, the Joshis would like to hand over their daughter to his family. He wrote a letter to Madan Mohan, too, with the same request. Mohini had also written two letters to Madan Mohan, both in English and in block letters, addressing him as ‘MY ONE AND ONLY MADANJI’ and telling him how much she was looking forward to becoming his ‘LOVING AND FAITHFUL WIFE’. She signed off as ‘YOUR BELOVED MOHINI’. Madan Mohan replied to their letters in a business-like tone, telling Mohini’s father that they would soon be hearing from him about a suitable date, and assuring Mohini of his affection and advising her to acquaint herself with sacred Hindu texts on marriage.

  The 15th of August was Madan Mohan’s birthday. He would turn twenty-five, and could then end his brahmacharya and enter grihastha. The marriage ceremony could take place on any day after that. But by that time the monsoons would have set in. The gods would retire under the ocean. It was not auspicious to have marriages during the rainy season. Sometime late October or early November would be more suitable. For a more precise time, he would need to study carefully the books he had collected on astrology.

  Madan Mohan had recently begun using B.V. Raman’s Hindu Predictable Astrology as a textbook on the subject. It was heavily marked and underlined on several pages. To him, Raman was a genius, and his book, based on ancient Sanskrit texts, was far more reliable than the works of Nostradamus and other Europeans who were mere magicians—and bad ones, too, since magic had been perfected in India, not in the West. He also subscribed to The Astrological Magazine, published from Bangalore, and Babaji, edited by Lachhman Das Madan of Delhi. Every new book and magazine he read on astrology confirmed his opinion that the wise sages of India’s glorious past were geniuses. They had divided not only the months of the year but also the hours of the day and night into periods that were auspicious and those that were unlucky: Rahu Kaal, Yamagand, Gulika Kaal. With these principles to guide him, Madan Mohan consulted his own and Mohini’s horoscopes. He decided that the 31st of October would be the most suitable day for their marriage and 9.30 p.m. the most suitable time for the nuptial ceremony. Hari Mohan Pandey wrote to Mohini’s father informing him of this.

  In the meantime, Madan Mohan read and re-read the Kamasutra. He marvelled at the precision with which the sage Vatsyayana had analysed sexual differences between men and women and given detailed advice on how they could get the best out of each other. He knew about the three classifications of the two genders depending on the sizes of their genitals. He had recently measured his penis at rest and when erect with a measuring tape and it had confirmed his opinion that he was either a bull or a horse, probably the latter. But how did one plumb the depths of a woman’s vagina? He came to the conclusion that in Vatsyayana’s time Hindu scientists must have invented some kind of dipstick for the purpose, of the kind used to gauge the amount of oil in a car. They had made all the necessary calculations centuries ago, so that now people like him could study the scriptures and tell, just by looking carefully at a woman, the size of her vagina.

  He read with amazement about the chatushashti—sixty-four—different postures that couples could adopt during intercourse. And about the sexually sensitive points in a woman’s body—where and how to kiss her, bite her, dig his nails in her—and the kinds of noises she would make in the heat of passion. Vatsyayana was meticulous in his research and quoted other authorities on sex where they differed with him. He was a true scholar and a sage, and Madan Mohan was full of admiration for him.

  However, he was dismayed to read Vatsyayana’s advice that a man should not be in a hurry to consummate his marriage on the first night but wait at least three days to win over his bride’s confidence and only enter her when she was fully aroused and eager for the union. He pondered over the problem. He got some books from the Nehru Library to see if they had anything on the subject of deferring sexual intercourse after marriage. He was delighted to find yet another piece of evidence of the West borrowing ideas from ancient Hindu texts. As usual, the Germans had been the first to pick up Oriental wisdom. In several parts of that Aryan country it was a practice not to allow a newly-wed couple access to each other for a few days. In Swabia, three days’ abstinence was prescribed—the same as in the Kamasutra. They were known as Tobias nights. Convinced, all over again, of the greatness of Hindu thought and practice, Madan Mohan decided that if he could remain celibate for twenty-five years, he could remain celibate for twenty-five years and three days.

  *

  Madan Mohan took charge of his wedding arrangements. He went to the baraat ghar in Kaka Nagar, inspected the rooms and furniture and gave instructions on how many coloured lights were to be put up on the parapets of the building and in the trees in the garden; where the havan pit was to be dug and where the three-man team of shehnai players was to be seated. He chartered a bus to pick up the Joshis, their relatives and friends early on 30th October, get them to Delhi by noon and then take them back to Mathura, minus Mohini, the next afternoon. He informed his prospective father-in-law of the arrangements, telling him that the bus could carry no more than fifty passengers and advising him to bring their family priest with them. The only tasks he left for his parents were to buy gifts for Mohini’s family and arrange a lunch reception in their house on the day following the wedding.

  Through all this he also continued attending and addressing shakha meetings, doing his yoga asanas and studying the Kamasutra. Starting a week before his wedding date he got a masseur, trained in the science of Ayurveda, to give him an oil massage every morning. He followed the massage with a hot bath, scrubbing his body with a loofah to rinse out the oil. It invigorated his system and left a mild fragrance of herbal oil on his body.

  Things went exactly according to schedule. The Joshis arrived in Delhi on time. With them they brought their own pandit, and the little dowry they could afford to give their daughter: a sewing machine, a small fridge, six sarees and some jewellery. The Pandeys invited their closest relatives and friends, who were to form their son’s baraat, for tea on the afternoon of the 31st of October. By the time the tea party was over, the sun had set and the guests were instructed to have their cars lined up behind the larger of the Pandeys’ two cars which had been decked up with strings of jasmine flowers. Madan Mohan had put his foot down on riding on a horse led by a brass band. He did not wish to make a spectacle of himself. He rode in the car with his parents to the baraat ghar. By the time they arrived, the coloured lights had been switched on and the shehnai players ha
d struck up their plaintive whine. The Joshis welcomed the Pandeys and their party. Mohini was gently pushed in front, half her face covered by her sari pallu. She put a garland of jasmines around Madan’s neck; in return Madan put a garland around hers. The guests were conducted to the lawn to partake of a vegetarian feast of pooris, kachauris, sweets and soft drinks.

  While the guests were still guzzling food and drinks, Madan was taken indoors for a session of banter with Mohini’s sisters and girl cousins. They seated him in their midst and placed a platter of sweets and a tumbler of sharbat before him. ‘Doolhaji, sample some of our home-made halva and sharbat,’ they chorused. Madan was too smart for them. ‘You taste some first, then I’ll take it,’ he said. It turned out that the sweets were full of chillies, the sharbat full of salt. Disappointed that their prank had failed, the girls removed the platter. Even as they did so, one girl came up behind Madan Mohan, pulled his chutia and asked, ‘Other animals have tails on their bums, why do you have one on your head?’ Madan Mohan turned around sharply, grabbed the girl’s pigtail and brought her down to her knees. ‘You touch my chutia again and I’ll make sure you don’t have a single hair left on your head!’ he said angrily. ‘Learn to respect your traditions!’ Mohini’s mother, who was at the door, rushed in and intervened, ‘Bas, stop this nonsense. Don’t trouble your jeejaji. It is time for the pheras.’

  The havan pit was lit and pandits of both families took their places beside it. The auspicious hour for solemnizing the marriage was at hand. Madan Mohan and Mohini were seated side by side. The pandits began to chant marriage hymns from the Vedas, feeding the sacred fire with spoonfuls of ghee and instructing the bride and bridegroom to toss sacred offerings into it. Madan Mohan, of course, needed no instructions since he was familiar with all the hymns and rituals. This went on for nearly half an hour. Then the couple was asked to stand up. One end of Mohini’s saree was tied to a pink scarf that Madan Mohan wore around his neck, and as they went round the sacred fire seven times, family members and friends gathered around and showered rose petals on them. Madan Mohan put a black-beaded mangalsutra around Mohini’s neck, applied sindhoor in the parting of her hair, and the two were pronounced man and wife.