My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  The fact is, Saugandhi did know many tricks and even shared them freely with her friends in the profession. ‘If the fellow turns out to be a gentleman, not given to talking much, play tricks with him and keep talking endlessly. Tease him, tickle him, and play with him. If he has a beard, run your fingers through it, pulling out a hair or two now and then. If he has a big fat belly, pat it. Never ever give him a moment to do what he wants. But these quiet types—they’re the worst. They’ll crush your bones if they have their way.’

  Saugandhi wasn’t quite as clever as she let on. She had very few clients. Being overly sentimental, she allowed all her wiles to slip from her mind and straight down into her belly, which having once given birth to a child was now lined with stretch marks. When she first saw those marks, she thought her mangy dog had clawed her there. Every time a bitch passed by him indifferently, he traced similar lines in the dust, as if to hide his smallness, his sense of shame at being ignored so heartlessly.

  For the most part Saugandhi lived inside her own mind. Still, when someone spoke to her with kindness, or said just a gentle word, she melted on the spot and let it work its magic throughout her body. Although her mind considered sexual intimacy patently absurd, every other part of her body longed for it. Every limb yearned to be worked over, to exhaustion, until fatigue settled in and eased her into a state of delightful sleep—the wondrous sleep that comes after the body has been crushed, the torpor that follows when the body has been roughed up badly, when every limb aches and the joints loosen and relax, and a sleepy languor takes over. At times you feel you’re very much there and then you’re not, and sometimes in this middling state of being and non-being you feel as if you’re suspended very high in the air, with nothing around you—above, below, to the right or left—but air. Even the sensation of choking in this air has a pleasure all its own.

  Even as a little girl, when Saugandhi hid in her mother’s big trunk during a game of hide-and-seek, she had felt the same suffocating pleasure when her heartbeat quickened from the lack of oxygen in the closed space and the fear of being caught.

  She desperately wanted to spend her whole life hiding inside a trunk just like that one, with her seekers going round and round looking for her; she wanted them to find her sometimes, so that she might try to find them in turn. Wasn’t this life she’d been living the past five years like a game of hide-and-seek, after all? Sometimes she sought someone out, sometimes someone searched for her. This is how her life bumped along. She was happy, because she had to be. Every night there was a man by her side in her large teakwood bed and Saugandhi, who knew umpteen tricks to thwart their attempts to get fresh with her, who had firmly resolved not to succumb to their unreasonable demands, and would treat them with a forbidding coldness, was always swept away by her emotions and remained only a woman craving love.

  Every evening her companion, someone new or a regular, would profess, ‘Saugandhi, I love you,’ and she, knowing only too well that he was lying, would melt away, believing he truly did love her. Love—could any word be sweeter! The desire to melt it and rub it all over her body until it penetrated every pore overwhelmed her. Or, if not that, then perhaps if she could somehow crawl completely inside it and lower the lid, as though it were some sort of box. Sometimes, when the desire to love and be loved became dire, she felt like gathering the man lying beside her into her lap and rock him to sleep, singing lullabies.

  Her ability to love was so profound that she could love and remain true to any man who visited her. Wasn’t she, after all, harbouring her love to this day for the four men whose pictures hung on the wall facing her! The feeling of being a good woman—indeed a very good woman—never left her. Why, oh why, were men so bereft of goodness? Once, contemplating herself in the mirror, the words ‘Saugandhi, the world hasn’t treated you well’ involuntarily escaped from her lips.

  The past five years, every night and day of them, were inextricably woven into every fibre of her being. And even though she hadn’t been quite as happy during this time as she had wished to be, she nonetheless longed for her days to continue along the same course. Why lust after money—after all she wasn’t planning to become rich. Her going rate was ten rupees, out of which Ramlal took two and a half as his commission. The balance was quite adequate for her needs. In fact, when Madho came down from Puna—‘to storm her’, as Ramlal put it—she had saved enough to even offer him ten or fifteen rupees by way of tribute. Tribute for what? Let’s just say she had special feelings for him. Ramlal was absolutely right. The man had something about him that Saugandhi fell for. No point hiding it. Might as well let it out. During their first encounter Madho had told her flat out: ‘Have some shame! You’re wrangling over your price? Don’t you know what you’re dickering over and what it is I’ve come for? For heaven’s sake! A mere ten rupees, out of which Ramlal takes a quarter. That leaves seven and a half, doesn’t it? And for this measly sum you promise to give me what you have no power to give, and I come to take what I really can’t take. I need a woman. But do you need a man, right now, this minute? For me, any woman would do. How about you, do you fancy me? Nothing tangible binds us together . . . nothing except these ten rupees, out of which a quarter will go as commission and the rest you’ll spend as you will. You hear their jingle, so do I. Your mind is on one thing, mine on another. Why not talk about something totally different: like you need me and I need you. Look, I’m a havildar in Puna. I’ll visit you once a month, for, say, three or four days. Give up this business. I’ll pay your expenses. Well now, how much rent must you dish out for this kholi?’

  Madho had said quite a few other things as well. They affected her so deeply that for a moment she thought she was already a havildar’s wife. After talking for a while, Madho brought some order into the things that were scattered around her room, and then tore up the smutty pictures she had on the wall above her bed without waiting for her permission. ‘Well, Saugandhi,’ he said, ‘I can’t allow these here . . . and,’ he added, ‘this water pot, look how grimy it is. And these rags . . . my God, they smell awful. Come on, throw them out! And why have you ruined your hair? And . . . and . . . and . . .’

  After jabbering for three hours the two started feeling quite close. Saugandhi began to feel as though she had already known the havildar for some years now. No one had minded the presence of smelly rags, the grimy water pot, or the smutty pictures in the room before, nor had anyone ever made her think that she too had a place of her own that she could turn into a home. Men came and went without noticing even the grime and filth of the bed. No one had ever said, ‘Saugandhi, your nose looks quite red today. You aren’t coming down with a cold, are you? Okay, I’ll go get some medicine for you.’ How awfully considerate Madho was! Whatever he said was absolutely right. Hadn’t he given her a piece of his mind without mincing words! The thought that she needed Madho began to take hold. So they hitched together.

  Madho came over from Puna once a month. Before leaving he never failed to warn her, ‘Look, Saugandhi, if you ever go back to turning tricks again, we’ll have to break up, and if I ever catch you with another man here, I’ll drag you by your hair and throw you out . . . and yes, I’ll send you this month’s expenses by postal money order as soon as I get back. So now, what’s the rent for this kholi?’

  Madho never sent her any money from Puna, nor did Saugandhi stop turning tricks. Both knew well enough how things were. But she never turned on Madho, never said, ‘What’s this harping about money all the time! When have you ever given me even a chipped pie?’ Nor did Madho ever ask, ‘So where do you get all this stuff from when I never give you anything?’ Liars—both. Living a sham. And yet Saugandhi was happy. If you can’t afford real gold jewellery, you settle for fake.

  At that moment a bone-tired Saugandhi was fast asleep. The electric bulb overhead, which she had forgotten to turn off, was shining right above her closed eyes drowned in heavy sleep.

  Someone knocked at the door. Who could it be at two in the morning? The
sound of the knock filtered faintly into her ears like a distant hum. When the knock came again, insistent, more urgent, she woke up with a start. The two different kinds of liquor she had downed last evening and the bits of fish still caught between her teeth had produced a sticky, acidic saliva in her mouth. Rubbing her eyes groggily, she wiped the foul-smelling gob off her lips with the edge of her dhoti. She was the only one in the bed. She leaned over and peeked underneath only to find her dog sleeping with his head resting on the weather-beaten chappals, snarling as usual at something invisible. The parrot, too, was asleep with its head tucked into its feathers.

  When someone rapped on the door again, Saugandhi forced herself out of bed. She had a splitting headache. She filled a mug with water from the pot, rinsed her mouth, filled the mug again and hurriedly gulped down the water. She opened the door just a crack and asked, ‘Is that you, Ramlal?’

  Tired from repeatedly banging on the door, Ramlal exclaimed with visible annoyance, ‘Did a snake bite you or something? I’ve been knocking now for over an hour. Where the hell were you?’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘You haven’t got anyone inside, have you?’

  When she told him there wasn’t anyone inside, he raised his voice again and asked, ‘So why wouldn’t you open the door? This is the limit. By God, you sleep like a log. If it takes two hours to fix up each one of you with a customer, I might just as well say goodbye to my business. Now don’t stand there gawking at me. Take off this dhoti and put on a sari, the one with the floral print, and put some powder on your face. Then come with me. A seth is waiting for you outside in his car. Come on, hurry up!’

  Saugandhi plunked down in the armchair while Ramlal walked over to the mirror and started combing his hair.

  She reached towards the tea table, picked up the jar of balm and said as she unscrewed the cap, ‘Ramlal, I don’t feel well today.’

  He put the comb back on the shelf, turned to her and said, ‘Oh, I see . . . You should have said something earlier.’

  Saugandhi rubbed the balm on her forehead and along her temples. To let him know that it wasn’t what he was thinking, she explained, ‘Now don’t get any wrong ideas, Ramlal. It’s just that I had a bit too much to drink.’

  Ramlal’s mouth began watering. ‘If there’s any left, let me have a drop! I haven’t tasted any for ages.’

  She put the jar back on the tea table and said, ‘If I had saved any, I wouldn’t be having this infernal headache. Look, why don’t you bring the guy in.’

  ‘No, there’s no way he would come here. He’s a respectable man, a “gentleman”. As it is, he was feeling quite nervous about parking the car outside in the street. Change your clothes and come with me out to the corner. Everything will be all right.’

  It was only a seven-and-a-half-rupee deal. Under normal circumstances, Saugandhi would never have accepted it when she had such a terrible headache, but she desperately needed money. The husband of her next-door neighbour, a Madrasi woman, had been run over by a car and died. She needed to return to her hometown with her young daughter, but she had no money and was languishing here, feeling utterly despondent. Just the other day Saugandhi had comforted her by saying, ‘Sister, don’t you worry. My man is due to arrive from Puna any day now. I’ll ask him for some money and arrange for your travel.’ That Madho would descend from Puna was certain, but the money was something else again. Saugandhi would have to arrange for it herself. So she got up and was ready to go in five minutes flat, her floral sari draped perfectly, and face powdered and rouged. She drank another mug of cold water and set off with Ramlal.

  The street, quite a bit wider than the ones in small towns, was perfectly still. A feeble glow filtered through the gas streetlamps whose shades had been partially blackened out because of the war. In this muted light she could make out the dim silhouette of a car parked at the very end of the street.

  The sight of the dark shadow of the black car at this late hour on a night filled with mysteries gave Saugandhi the inescapable feeling that her headache had seeped out and permeated the atmosphere. The air even had a fetid taste, as if saturated with the stench of brandy and country liquor.

  Ramlal went on ahead and spoke to the man inside the car. When Saugandhi caught up with him, he moved to one aside and said, ‘Here she is . . . a very fine piece . . . She’s joined the business only a few days ago.’ And then, addressing Saugandhi, ‘Come a bit closer, Saugandhi. Show yourself to Sethji. He’d like to see you.’

  Twisting a corner of her sari around her finger, she came forward and stood near the window. The seth turned the torch straight on her face and her drowsy eyes were dazzled momentarily. The light went dead with a click at the same time as an ‘Oh no!’ escaped from the seth’s lips. At once the engine sputtered and the car sped away.

  It was gone before Saugandhi had time to think. The intense light from the torch was still lodged in her eyes. She hadn’t even seen the seth’s face properly. What had happened? What was the meaning of that ‘Oh no!’ which was still ringing in her ears? Yes, what? . . .

  ‘He didn’t like you,’ she heard her pimp say. ‘Okay, I should move along. Two hours wasted.’

  When she heard this, Saugandhi’s legs, arms, hands, indeed her entire body was overcome by the violent urge to spring into action. Where was that car? That damned seth? He didn’t like her—is that what the ‘Oh no!’ meant? A curse word rose from the pit of her stomach but stopped at the tip of her tongue. Whom would she aim it at? The car had already taken off, its tail lights fading before her in the gathering darkness of the bazaar. It felt as though the ‘Oh no!’ was driving deeper into her breast like the red-hot bit of an auger. She felt like screaming her lungs out: ‘O Seth, stop, wait just a minute.’ But the seth, God curse him, was long gone.

  She stood in the desolate bazaar alone. Her floral sari, worn only on special occasions, was fluttering in the gentle breeze of the late night hour. Suddenly, she found she detested it and the velvety rustle it made with every fibre of her being. The desire to shred it to bits seized her; its every flutter seemed to mimic that unforgiving ‘Oh no!’ She had dabbed her cheeks with powder and painted her lips red. All this to look desirable—the very thought evoked feelings of shame and she began to perspire from a surge of regret. She made up a slew of excuses to shake off that crushing feeling of humiliation: ‘I didn’t do it to show myself off to that potbelly. I always use make-up. Why, everyone does. But . . . but at two in the morning? And Ramlal the pimp, this bazaar, that car . . . and the glare of the torch . . .’ The thought of it made her head swirl and an infinity of bright spots began to stream past her as far as her eyes could see. The snarl of the car’s engine was audible in every gust of wind.

  Because of the perspiration, the make-up over the balm on her forehead started to run and her forehead felt like someone else’s, not her own. When a puff of air brushed over it, she felt as though someone had pasted a patch of cerotin there. The racking headache was still there, though a plethora of noisy thoughts had subdued it temporarily. Many times she tried to help the headache rise above the surface of her thoughts but failed. She desperately wished for her body—her head, her legs, her stomach, her arms, everywhere—to ache all over, so severely that she would be aware only of the pain and oblivious of everything else. Suddenly something happened to her heart in the midst of her thoughts. Was it pain? Her heart contracted for a moment and then relaxed. What was that? Curses! It was that same ‘Oh no!’ causing her heart to contract and expand by turns.

  She had just started to walk back home when her feet froze. ‘Does Ramlal think the man didn’t like my looks?’ she wondered. ‘Well no. He didn’t say anything about my looks. All he said was, “He didn’t like you.” And even if he didn’t like my looks, so what? I also don’t like the looks of many men. The guy, the one who came on the night of the new moon, what a grotesque face he had! Didn’t I turn my nose up at him in disgust? Didn’t I find him revolting when he got into bed with me? Didn’t I feel like throwi
ng up? That may well be, Saugandhi, but at least you didn’t turn him away, or spurn him. But the seth, who came riding in his fancy car, he flat out spat in your face: “Oh no!” What else could that “Oh no!” have meant? Except, huh, A muskrat rubbing jasmine oil in its smelly head!—as the saying goes—or My, my, such high hopes with a face like this! “Oh, Ramlal, is this the girl you were praising to high heaven?—This girl . . . for a full ten rupees! Why not a donkey . . .”’

  She was deeply immersed in her thoughts while ferocious flames were leaping from her big toe to the top of her head. By turns she felt angry with herself and then Ramlal, who had caused her so much misery at two in the morning. The next moment she felt that neither of them deserved any blame; instead, her thoughts focused on the seth. And with that, her eyes, ears, arms and legs, in fact every inch of her body instinctively turned around trying to find him somewhere. The desire to see the earlier scene play out again, just once, gripped her: she moves slowly towards the car, a hand pulls out the torch and points the beam at her, she hears that ‘Oh no!’ again and, straight away, she pounces on him like a wild cat and starts scratching his face mercilessly with her fingernails, grown long according to the current fashion. She should yank him out of the car by his hair, pummel him with her fists and . . . break into sobs, exhausted.