# Visa to Paradise

*A satirical short story*

## Part One – The Queue at the End

When Ramesh died—quietly, in his sleep, after a lifetime of cutting queues and fudging tax returns—he expected either eternal silence or the strum of heavenly harps. What he did not expect was a queue.

A long one.

It twisted through a grey, misty corridor lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed like irritated bees. At the front stood a heavy door with a brass plaque: 

**GATE OF PARADISE – ISSUANCE SECTION** 

*Please have your documents ready. No chai breaks. *

Underneath, in smaller script: 

*“By order of Yamraj, Lord of Death & Immigration.”*

Ramesh patted his pockets. He had no documents. He had died in his pyjamas.

The queue moved forward. Each soul before him was turned away by a bored clerk who looked like a government employee who had been dead for three thousand years and still hadn’t received a promotion.

“Passport?” 

“I… I didn’t know I needed one.” 

“Next.”

When Ramesh’s turn came, he offered his best smile. “Good morning, sir. I was wondering—”

“Passport or return slip to narak?” the clerk said without looking up.

“Neither, but you see, I lived a very decent life. I never stole more than office stationery.”

The clerk stamped a form. “Take this. Go to Counter 2. Bring a passport, visa stamps from each lifetime, proof of good deeds on letterhead from a recognised deity, tax receipts for sins, and a character certificate from your local pundit. If any document is missing, you will be processed to the lower floors.”

Ramesh looked at the stamp. It read: **“INCOMPLETE – RETURN TO SAMSARA.”**

Thus began the satirical truth: in heaven, as on earth, paperwork is the real purgatory.

---

## Part Two – A Vacancy Opens Up

It so happened that just then, a vacancy arose in heaven. A minor angel had retired (burnout from listening to too many bhajans). Yamraj, the Lord of Death, issued an advertisement:

 **“URGENT RECRUITMENT – HEAVEN ADMINISTRATION”** 

*Position: Celestial Gatekeeper (Temporary, may become permanent after 100,000 years probation)* 

*Requirements: Must have performed at least one selfless deed on Earth. Proof required in triplicate. * 

*Interviews to be held in Narak Conference Hall, Room 101. Bring original documents + photocopies (both sides).*

The news spread across the afterlife. Millions applied. The screening committee—three old clerks with ink-stained fingers—reduced the list to four. Only four souls had managed to submit all forms without a single spelling mistake.

Their interview cards arrived by spectral post:

*“You are hereby summoned to appear before the High Throne of Yamraj. Dress code: White (no holes). Be on time. Lateness will result in automatic disqualification and reassignment to the Department of Unanswered Prayers.”*

---

## Part Three – The Four Candidates

### Candidate No. 1 – Atma Ram

Yamraj sat on a throne made of filing cabinets. His face was the colour of a storm cloud, but his reading glasses gave him an oddly bureaucratic air.

“Name?” 

“Atma Ram, my Lord.” 

“Atma Ram,” Yamraj repeated. “Soul of God. Impressive. Residence?” 

“The Cremation Grounds, my Lord.” 

“I see. And during your tenure at the cremation grounds, what was your occupation?”

Atma Ram coughed. “I… facilitated transitions.” 

“You pushed people into the fire before they were dead,” Yamraj said, sliding a report across the desk. “You sold wood from stolen pyres. You mixed ashes of buffalo with the ashes of saints and sold them as holy relics. You even pocketed the teeth of the departed and resold them as ‘Buddha’s molars.’ Am I lying?”

Atma Ram’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

“Why do you want to come to heaven?” 

“Because,” Atma Ram whispered, “I am fed up with worldly things.” 

Yamraj removed his glasses. “You *are* worldly things. You are their mouldy residue. You have done nothing but accelerate the arrival of souls to my doorstep—and half of them came without proper paperwork because of you. Return to the cremation grounds. And this time, stay.”

*Candidate No. 1 – Rejected.*

---

### Candidate No. 2 – Neek Ram

 

“Name?” 

“Neek Ram, Lord.” 

“Translation?” 

“‘Good Lord’ or ‘Virtuous God,’” Neek Ram said with a hopeful smile. 

“And your deeds on Earth reflect this noble name?”

The file opened. Yamraj read in silence. Then he looked up.

“You have not done a single good deed in seventy-three years. You did not harm anyone, true—but you also never helped. You never gave a rupee to a beggar, never stopped to lift a fallen scooter, never even held a door open. Your life was a zero. A perfect, inert, useless zero.”

Neek Ram shuffled his feet. “I will improve my activities in heaven, Lord. Once I settle in, I promise I’ll—”

“Heaven is not a training ground,” Yamraj said. “It is a destination. You should have practised goodness on Earth, where it costs something. Here, virtue is mandatory. You cannot *learn* it after arrival. Return.”

“But where will I go?” 

“To the Department of Mild Inconvenience. It is neither heaven nor hell. Just a very long wait for a bus that never comes.”

*Candidate No. 2 – Rejected. *

---

### Candidate No. 3 – Balak Ram

“Name?” 

“Balak Ram, sir.” 

“Child of God. Cute. What was your profession on Earth?” 

“I worked in a hospital, Lord. As a nurse.”

Yamraj’s expression softened—then hardened as he read the file.

“Balak Ram, you swapped newborn babies for profit. When a rich couple delivered a stillborn, you sold them a live child from a poor mother and told her the infant died. You did this seventeen times. You made money from the tears of parents.”

Balak Ram wept. “I was young. I needed the money.” 

“Everyone needs money. Not everyone trades human grief for it. Return.”

“To where?” 

“To the maternity ward of hell. You will deliver screaming receipts for eternity.”

*Candidate No. 3 – Rejected. *

---

### Candidate No. 4 – Sant Ram

Yamraj sighed. The third candidate had left a bad taste. He called the last one.

“Name?” 

“Sant Ram, my Lord.” 

“Saint of God. And where did you reside on Earth?” 

“Lane Number 420, Sector 7, Ganga Nagar.”

Yamraj put down his pen. “Lane 420. The penal code for fraud. Promising.”

He opened the file. “Tell me, Sant Ram—have you ever spoken a lie?”

“Never, my Lord. I have never told a single untruth in my entire life.”

Yamraj smiled thinly. “That itself is a lie, because I see here that as a priest, you recited inauspicious mantras at weddings—the ones meant for funerals—and funeral mantras at weddings. You did it deliberately, because the family that paid more got the ‘auspicious’ version. The rest got curses disguised as blessings.”

Sant Ram turned pale. “I… I was just following market demand.”

“And your reason for wanting heaven?” 

“I wish to learn Sanskrit, my Lord. Properly. So that I can charge higher fees. More *dakshina*.”

Yamraj leaned forward. “Let me understand. You have defrauded the living. You have weaponised holy words. And now you want to come to heaven to *upskill* for better fraud?”

“When you put it that way—”

“I put it exactly that way. Return to the mortal realm. Reincarnate as a form. A tax form. You will be filled out, stamped, and filed in error for seven lifetimes.”

*Candidate No. 4 – Rejected. *

---

## Part Four – The Moral of the Mess

Yamraj closed all four files and turned to his chief clerk, Chitragupta.

“No one,” he said, “wants to come to heaven for heaven itself. They want to escape something, or they want to exploit something, or they want to improve something they should have fixed on Earth. Has no one simply lived well?”

Chitragupta consulted a ledger the size of a small car. “Fourteen people, my Lord, in the last ten thousand years. They went straight to the VIP lounge. No interviews. No paperwork.”

“What did they do?”

“They were kind without recording it. They gave without receiving a receipt. They forgave without witnesses. They did not apply for heaven. They simply arrived, and the door opened.”

Yamraj nodded. “Then put up a new notice.”

Chitragupta took out his quill. “What should it say?”

Yamraj thought for a moment, then dictated:

*“NOTICE: Heaven is not a promotion. It is not a reward for cleverness. It is not a training college. It is the natural resting place of those who forgot to keep score. All others, please form a queue to the left. Tax receipts will be audited. Bring your own pen.”*

**THE END**

*With sincere apologies to R.K. Sharma and All India Radio’s “Hawa Mahal.” Bureaucracy is equally funny in every language. *