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 He received no patronage from the local princes nor from the British, whom he admired, and was superseded thrice to the post of headmaster.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.
God seemed to shower his blessings on Devi Lal’s family. The three girls, though no beauties, were presentable, well-mannered and above average at studies. They helped their mother in the kitchen and stitched their own clothes. When Savitri was eighteen and Leela sixteen, one of Devi Lal’s junior colleagues who had sons in their twenties came to him with marriage proposals. Besides being a government servant, he owned two provision stores in Chandigarh which were looked after by his sons. The girls were married off on the same day that winter. Three years later, a building contractor whom Devi Lal had obliged, asked for Naina Devi’s hand in marriage for his son, a young doctor who had just completed his MBBS. Naina had passed her tenth standard and wanted to go to college. But her parents refused to let her. ‘What use is college education to girls?’ they said. ‘It only puts wrong notions in their heads. You don’t need to go to college to learn how to look after your home and husband.’ So at sixteen Naina too was married off. Devi Lal did not have to arrange for a dowry: he was head draftsman and still had a few years of government service left, and the contractor would need other favours. God was indeed being kind to Devi Lal.
*
By the time Devi Lal retired from service, Chandigarh had grown into a modern city. He had seen its birth in the small rest house in Chandi Mandir where Le Corbusier had made his rough sketches of the new city, its lakes and gardens, boulevards, government buildings and neat colonies. To Devi Lal, Chandigarh was like his own child. He was satisfied with what he had achieved in his profession and looked forward to a quiet retired life.
He was a contented man. His daughters had been married into good families and his son showed all signs of growing up to be an officer in some service or the other and earning enough to look after his family and ageing parents. Devi Lal had spared no expense in giving him a good education. The boy was sent to Chandigarh’s most reputed public school, where former royal families had sent their sons. Whenever tuitions became necessary, the best private tutors were hired. After every year-end examination he was rewarded with an expensive gift—a watch, a sports bicycle, cricket gear, and a Yamaha motorcycle in his second year of college in Punjab University.
Raj Kumar excelled in his studies and made his parents proud. Devi Lal loved nothing more than showing off his son to relatives and friends. He was not only a brilliant student but a good athlete as well. While Devi Lal was a man of modest build and average looks, Raj Kumar was six feet tall and powerfully built. He had probably taken after some ancestor of aristocratic stock.
After college, Raj Kumar sat for the civil services exam. Devi Lal was certain that he would be among the top hundred successful candidates. And he was. He could not make it to the most coveted Foreign Service or the Administrative Service but the rest, like the Police, Revenue, Accounts and Forests, were his for the asking. Ultimately, he took his father’s advice. ‘No service commands as much prestige as the police,’ Devi Lal told him. ‘A policeman is respected and feared by all, including politicians and ministers. He may have to salute them for the sake of courtesy but he calls all the shots. And his ooper ki amdani is much, much more than in many of the other central services—even a thanedar of a police station can make a few lakhs a month if he gets a good thana in a locality with a high crime rate.’ That made sense to Raj Kumar. He opted for the Indian Police Service. He was built like a police officer and had a fascination for uniforms, so it seemed right in every way. It was a proud moment for Devi Lal’s family when Raj Kumar got the letter confirming his selection, with orders to report at the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration in Mussoorie. People, including many Devi Lal did not know, poured in to congratulate him and Janaki. Several of them brought proposals of marriage. Devi Lal thanked them, noted down their names and put them off till the day Raj Kumar completed his training and was allotted a government bungalow. ‘This little jhuggi is not good enough to receive the bride of an officer of the Indian Police Service,’ he told them. ‘We will talk about it when the time comes.’
Raj Kumar left for Mussoorie. Devi and Janaki got down to discussing the merits of the proposals they had received for their son. ‘She must be from a respectable, well-to-do family of our own caste,’ they both agreed. ‘She should also be well-educated, modern and good looking,’ suggested Janaki. ‘No one wants a plain-looking gharelu type like me for a wife these days.’ Devi Lal poked a finger in his wife’s belly playfully and said, ‘And she should be able to produce sons. Not like you, one daughter after another.’
‘That was God’s will. He did give us a son in the end, didn’t he?’ protested Janaki.
Devi Lal had to agree. Not only had the Ooperwala given him a son just when he had lost hope, He had also blessed the boy with intelligence, looks and good fortune. And all this when neither he nor Janaki had even prayed to Him!
Devi Lal and Janaki now began dreaming of Raj Kumar’s marriage. They would have a grand wedding with the elite of the city invited to the reception; they would put up a huge pandal in the open space in front of their modest house. Later, they would rent out their house to a reliable tenant and move into their son’s bungalow, to be looked after by a dutiful, enlightened daughter-in-law.
They were in for a disappointment. Six months into his training at the Sardar Patel Police Training College in Hyderabad, Raj Kumar wrote to his parents asking their forgiveness for having got married to a woman probationer in his batch without seeking their permission or blessings. ‘We fell in love with each other and could not wait,’ the letter explained. Worse was to come. ‘She is a Sikh,’ Raj Kumar wrote. ‘You will like her when you see her. Please send us your blessings. Her name is Baljit Kaur Siddhu.’
That year, fifty candidates had been selected for the Indian Police Service, of whom five were women. During the common training for those selected for the Central Services at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy, those of the police naturally grouped together. Baljit was the best looking of the girls. Raj Kumar was the only other Punjabi in the batch, and quite handsome. It was Baljit who started to sit beside Raj Kumar in the classes and the canteen. They went out together for evening strolls. After four months in Mussoorie, they were sent to the Civil Defence College in Nagpur. By then they had started holding hands and kissing. Then followed a six-month course at the Sardar Patel National Police Academy in Hyderabad. Boys and girls were housed in different dormitories. Baljit found a way out of the strict segregation of the sexes. One Sunday she took Raj Kumar with her to the city. She had booked a room for the night in a hotel near the Chaar Minar. They made love all day and night and returned to the Academy the next morning. Their absence from the hostel was reported to the Director.
They were summoned to appear before him. ‘You know you can be dismissed from service for breaking the rules of the academy,’ he said sternly.
Baljit broke down. ‘Sir, we are engaged to be married,’ she said with tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘If we lose our jobs, we’ll be ruined.’
It was the first time Raj Kumar had heard of his engagement and impending marriage. He nodded his head vigorously to lend support to her plea.
‘Have you got your parents’ permission to marry?’ asked the Director.
‘No sir, not yet. We will ask for their blessings after we are married. Here in Hyderabad you are our father, mother—our guardian. We will do as you order us.’
The Director relented. After a pause during which he kept tapping his pen on the glass-top of the table he said, ‘Okay, get a marriage licence and I will get a magistrate to perform a civil marriage in the Academy.’
And so, two months later, Baljit Kaur Siddhu and Raj Kumar were pronounced husband and wife. The Director—whom Baljit had begun calling Papaji—and his wife hosted a reception for them in the Academy’s dining hall. He also helped them to get their postings as Assistant Superintendents of Police under training in Chandigarh.
The Devi Lals were shattered when they read Raj Kumar’s letter. ‘Without even consulting his parents! What’s the world coming to?’ said Devi Lal in anger and grief. ‘She’s not even a Hindu. How will a Sikh Jatni adjust into our family? Their ways and ours are not the same.’
Janaki, though equally disappointed, consoled her husband. ‘What’s the difference between Hindus and Sikhs? They are much the same. There are so many Hindu-Sikh marriages. At least she is not a Muslim or a Christian. And she is a Punjabi, not some kaali-kalooti Madrasan from the South who cannot even speak our language.’
Devi Lal pondered over her words. Yes, things could have been much worse. If God was testing them again, He wasn’t being as cruel as He could get. Devi Lal summed up the argument with one of his favourite proverbs: ‘What cannot be cured must be endured.’ He wrote back to his son sending their blessings, but with a proviso: ‘A civil marriage is not good enough for us. We must have a proper Hindu wedding with a reception to follow. What will our relatives and friends say if we don’t?’
A few months later Raj Kumar and Baljit Kaur arrived in Chandigarh by the Shatabadi Express from New Delhi. There was quite a crowd of relations, friends and police officials on the railway platform to receive them. Among them, unknown to Devi Lal and his wife, were Baljit’s parents and two brothers who had come from their village to receive her. The two stepped out of the train to be smothered in garlands and embraces. Raj Kumar pushed through the crowd, almost dragging his wife to greet his parents, his sisters and their husbands. He touched their feet before embracing them. Baljit followed his example. Janaki waved her hand over Baljit’s head and blessed her, ‘Sat putri hoven.’ Baljit burst out laughing, ‘Mataji, one will be good enough for us. I don’t think I can handle seven sons. Come, meet my parents and brothers.’
Baljit’s father was a retired Colonel. He and his sons, tall and tough—as was Baljit herself—looked after their several farms in the village. They appeared to be much better off than the Devi Lals; they had driven from their village to Chandigarh in a Toyota. ‘Let us go to the Shivalik for coffee and get to know each other better,’ the Colonel suggested. At the hotel, they talked about the need for a wedding ceremony. ‘We must have a proper wedding in a temple,’ said Devi Lal. ‘We must have a Sikh Anand Karaj,’ asserted Baljit’s mother, ‘otherwise our relatives will never forgive us.’ Janaki suggested a compromise: ‘Why can’t we have both? One day pheras in a temple; the next day an Anand Karaj in a gurdwara.’
‘Why not?’ agreed Baljit. ‘It will be great fun, one couple getting married three times! Don’t you agree, Raju?’
Raj Kumar agreed readily. Dates were settled.
When the bearer presented the bill to Devi Lal, Colonel Siddhu snatched it out of his hand. ‘We never take anything from a daughter’s home. That is not our custom.’
Colonel Siddhu paid the bill and drove them back to Mohali. ‘This is my little ghareeb khana,’ said Devi Lal. ‘I could not afford anything better. Please put your blessed feet in my humble abode.’
The Siddhus were disappointed but did not show it. ‘It’s a charming little house,’ said Mrs Siddhu. ‘Big houses can be a headache. If you ask me, I’d rather live in a two-bedroom flat than a haveli with dozens of rooms. You are lucky to be living in a manageable home.’
Mrs Siddhu’s tone of condescension left no doubt in Devi Lal and Janaki’s mind that as far as Baljit’s parents were concerned, their daughter had married beneath their class. This was reinforced further in the styles of the two weddings that followed. The havan arranged by Devi Lal in the Arya Samaj Mandir was a modest affair attended by relatives and close friends of the family. The Anand Karaj which took place in the Siddhus’ haveli was a grand affair with the entire village, distant relations and friends, some from as far away as Canada and the UK, present. They decked up Raj Kumar in a pink achkan and churidar and slung a kirpan around his waist. He looked regal in his Sikh outfit. There were over a thousand guests at the lunch that followed. In the evening the haveli was lit up with coloured lights. Baljit and Raj Kumar were seated in a new flower-bedecked Maruti gifted by the Siddhus. The rest of the dowry followed in a truck: a colour-TV set, fridge, washing machine and steel trunks packed with clothes for her and Devi Lal’s family. When the caravan of cars drove out of the village towards Chandigarh, Janaki asked her husband, ‘Where will we put all this stuff in our little house?’ Devi Lal waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘Not to worry. They have been allotted a bungalow of their own. It has four bedrooms, a drawing-dining room, servants’ quarters and a garden with a maali to look after it. We are lucky in the match our son has made. We should be grateful to God for the way things have turned out.’
Raj Kumar and Baljit spent their first night after the Anand Karaj in Janaki Villa. Janaki had strewn rose petals on their bed and filled the room with flowers. She knew the couple must have consummated their marriage in Hyderabad but she wanted to believe that it was in his parents’ home that her son deflowered his bride. ‘Now all I want is a grandson in my lap,’ she told her husband as they retired to bed late that night.
The next morning Raj Kumar drove his parents in his new Maruti to his and Baljit’s official bungalow. Janaki was charmed by it and wished she was living there instead of Mohali, infested with parthenium, which gave her respiratory problems. But here Baljit was the boss. She ordered about the servants and constables assigned to them. She took Janaki on a conducted tour of the house while Raj Kumar sat in the verandah talking to his father. ‘What will you do with four bedrooms?’ asked Janaki timidly. ‘One is for us; one for my parents or brothers when they happen to stay overnight; one for guests and one for you and Pitaji whenever you wish to spend a few days with us away from the cares of your home,’ replied Baljit. Meanwhile, Devi Lal obliquely hinted to Raj Kumar at the problem of Janaki’s allergy to parthenium. ‘The doctor says she must stay elsewhere because there is no cure for the illnesses caused by this Congress Grass or parthenium or whatever. I am looking for a small one-bedroom flat somewhere near Sukhna lake or Chandi Mandir and will let out Janaki Villa.’ Raj Kumar did not say anything. It was evident he would discuss the matter with his wife before committing himself. Devi Lal wanted to tell his son a thing or two about being the man of the house but as Baljit’s imposing, Amazonian form appeared in the doorway, he knew instantly that his son didn’t stand a chance.
Some days later, it was Baljit who drove over to Janaki Villa. ‘Mataji, you never told me you were having breathing problems because of the Congress Grass growing all around you. I’m not going to let you stay here a day longer. I will send a truck with policemen to help you pick whatever you want to bring with you. You lock up Janaki Villa and come to our house. You can bring your servant with you; I’ll give him a room in the servants’ quarters. It will be a great favour, actually. We will be out on duty all day long. You can look after our house for us.’
It was clear to Janaki that she was required to be a glorified housekeeper. Every morning at breakfast she asked her son and daughter-in-law what they would like for lunch and dinner. She watched over them as they ate to make sure they had no complaints. When they returned from the office, often late in the evening, Devi Lal and Janaki sat with them for a while, then retired to their bedroom where they had their early evening meal. Both sensed that their son and daughter-in-law enjoyed a drink or two before dinner but that they would not drink in their presence. From the smell of tobacco that wafted into their bedroom they understood that Raj had taken to smoking. From the lipstick on the butts of cigarettes in the ashtray emptied in the morning it appeared that, though a Sikh, so did Baljit. Devi Lal and Janaki felt that what their son and daughter-in-law did was none of their business. They were in awe of the young couple. Every morning when Raj Kumar and Baljit appeared in their smart khaki uniforms, the sight made old Devi Lal and Janaki sigh with happiness; they looked as if God Himself had made them for each other.
One morning, as the pair left the house to get into the police car with a red light on its bonnet, Janaki noticed how shapely her daughter-in-law was: big bosom, slim waist and large buttocks that appeared to be bursting out of her khaki trousers. ‘She is very risht-pusht,’ she remarked to her husband, who replied, ‘In English they call it sexy. She could bear many healthy children.’
‘One or two would be enough,’ replied Janaki. ‘First a son, then either a son or a daughter. And then full stop.’ She laughed and repeated the family-planning slogan that her husband had told her about years ago: ‘Chhota parivar sukhi parivar.’ She had regained her humour. She breathed more easily.
Raj Kumar and Baljit did not want to start a family right away. They wanted to familiarize themselves with their jobs before having to look after children. So, even after marriage, they continued to use condoms while having sex, as they had done when their liaison started in Hyderabad. After the first few times, it was usually Baljit who took the initiative. She wore knee-length nighties which bared her large, smooth buttocks whenever she bent down, which she did often; her large, firm breasts were always visible through her sheer attire. If that did not arouse Raj Kumar, she demanded a goodnight kiss which she prolonged till he got the message. She was more vigorous than he when they were in the act. He had to quickly fish out a condom from under his pillow and came within a minute or two, leaving her aching for more. She explained to him why she was so randy. ‘You see, I am a full-blooded Jatni of peasant stock,’ she said to a breathless Raj Kumar. ‘You are a city-bred Khatri, of the trading class. We are more lusty than you. In fact, you people cannot beat us at anything physical.’ Stung by the comment, Raj Kumar did his best to put more zest into the act. ‘I’ll fuck the hell out of you, you sexy Jat bitch!’ he would shout as he heaved in and out. ‘Okay, fuck the hell out of me if you can,’ she challenged. He was never able to fuck the hell out of her. She never had an orgasm.
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 felt 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.