My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  Although this threw her off balance she couldn’t keep from laughing.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I do what you all do,’ he replied.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I don’t do anything.’

  ‘And neither do I.’

  ‘This makes no sense,’ she said in a huff. ‘Surely, you must do something.’

  ‘And so must you,’ he said with perfect equanimity.

  ‘I waste my time.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Well then, let’s waste it together.’

  ‘Fine with me. But remember, I don’t pay for wasting time.’

  ‘Come to your senses. This isn’t a charity house.’

  ‘And I’m not a volunteer either.’

  Sultana paused and then asked, ‘Who are these “volunteers”?’

  ‘Ulloo ke patthe!’*

  ‘Well, I’m not a “volunteer”.’

  ‘But that guy, that Khuda Bakhsh who lives with you, he certainly is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for days he’s been visiting a fakir, hoping he will turn his fortunes around when the man can’t even change his own fortunes.’ Shankar laughed.

  ‘You’re a Hindu,’ Sultana shot back, ‘that’s why you make fun of our holy men.’

  Shankar smiled. ‘The question of Hindu or Muslim doesn’t arise in a place such as this. If the most accomplished pandits or maulvis were to come here, they would all behave like perfect gentlemen.’

  ‘God knows what nonsense you’re talking about. Tell me plainly, will you stay or leave?’

  ‘I’ll stay, but only on the condition I told you.’

  Sultana got up and said, ‘In that case, you’d better be on your way.’

  Shankar leisurely got up, thrust both of his hands into his pockets and said on his way out, ‘Now and then I pass by this bazaar. Call me whenever you need me. I’m a very useful man.’

  Shankar departed and Sultana, forgetting all about the black clothes, kept thinking about him for a long time. His banter had appreciably lightened her heart. Had he visited her in Ambala, she would likely have viewed him in a different light. She might even have thrown him out. But here, in her current depressed state of mind, she liked his chatter.

  When Khuda Bakhsh returned in the evening, she asked, ‘Where have you been all day?’

  Looking bone-tired, Khuda Bakhsh said, ‘I had gone to the Old Fort. A holy man is staying there for a few days. I visit him every day in the hope that he might help turn our luck around.’

  ‘Has he said anything to you?’

  ‘No, so far he hasn’t. He hasn’t turned his attention to me, but I’m serving him with my whole heart and soul. It won’t be in vain. With God’s grace our good days will come. Of that I’m sure.’

  Preoccupied with the thought of celebrating Muharram, Sultana said in a doleful voice, ‘You disappear for the whole day every day, while I stay here, cooped up in a cage, unable to go anywhere. Muharram is upon us. Has it occurred to you that I need black mourning clothes. We haven’t got a pie in the house. One by one, all the bangles were sold. Just tell me how we’re going to manage. How long are you going to run after fakirs? It seems to me that God has withdrawn His grace from us here. I say, go back to your old business—it will at least bring in something.’

  He lay down on the dhurrie and said, ‘To restart I’d need a little bit of cash, wouldn’t I? For God’s sake, don’t talk of such painful things. I can’t bear them any more. I made a terrible mistake in leaving Ambala, yes. But whatever happens happens by God’s will . . . and for our own good. Who knows, after suffering a while longer we . . .’

  Sultana cut him short. ‘For God’s sake, do something! Steal. Rob. But get me a shalwar’s length of fabric. I already have a white bosky shirt; I’ll have it dyed. And the white cotton dupatta which you gave me at Diwali can also be dyed along with the shirt. I only lack a shalwar, which you must get me one way or another. Look, you must swear by my life that you’ll get it for me, or you’ll see me dead.’

  Khuda Bakhsh quickly sat up. ‘You keep insisting, but it isn’t fair. Where am I going to get it from? I don’t have a penny even for my opium.’

  ‘I don’t care. Do whatever you must, but bring me four and a half yards of black satin.’

  ‘So pray. Pray that God may send you two or three customers tonight.’

  ‘But you’re not going to lift a finger—is that it? If you tried you could easily make enough to buy the fabric. Satin sold at twelve, at most fourteen annas a yard before the war. Now it’s gone up to a rupee and a quarter. How much money does one need for four and a half yards?’

  ‘All right, if you must insist, I’ll think of some way.’ He got up. ‘But for now, put it out of your mind. Let me get some food from the restaurant.’

  Food arrived. They ate without enjoyment and went to bed. At daybreak Khuda Bakhsh again set off to see the fakir at the Old Fort. Sultana was left alone. She lingered in bed, lolled around some, slept some, and then she got up and wandered around the rooms for a while. After the midday meal she took out her white cotton dupatta and bosky shirt and brought them over to the laundryman downstairs to be dyed black. The laundry shop both washed and dyed clothes.

  She returned home and browsed through some film magazines that featured stories and songs from films she had seen, and dozed off at some point. When she woke up she could tell that it was already four o’clock as the sun was now abreast of the drain in the railway yard. After her bath she threw a woollen shawl around herself and sauntered out on to the balcony. She lingered there for a good hour. Evening had set in, lights were beginning to come on, and the first signs of life could be seen moving about in the street below. There was a nip in the air, but she didn’t find it unpleasant. She had been watching the traffic of cars and tongas for some time when she suddenly caught sight of Shankar. As he came directly underneath her flat, he raised his head and smiled at Sultana. She spontaneously called him up with a gesture of her hand.

  When he entered, she found herself at a loss for words. She had called him up on an impulse, without thinking. Shankar was completely at ease, as if he was in his own home and, just as he did on his previous visit, stretched out on the dhurrie, supporting his head on the bolster. Realizing that Sultana hadn’t spoken a word for a long time he said, ‘You can call me a hundred times, and send me back just as easily a hundred times . . . it doesn’t bother me—never.’

  She was at her wits’ end and didn’t know what to do. ‘No, no, sit down,’ she said. ‘Who’s asking you to leave?’

  Shankar smiled. ‘So you accept my conditions?’

  ‘What conditions?’ she said, laughing. ‘You aren’t entering into a formal marriage contract with me, are you?’

  ‘Contracts . . . marriage? Neither you nor I will ever get married. These conventions aren’t for the likes of us so drop this nonsense and talk about something real.’

  ‘Well then, what would you like me to talk about?’

  ‘You’re a woman. Say something to amuse my heart for a while. There’s more to life than just business.’

  By now Sultana had started to look favourably at the man. ‘Tell me plainly,’ she said, ‘what do you want from me?’

  ‘Why, the same thing the others want.’ He sat up.

  ‘So there’s no difference between you and them?’

  ‘Between you and me, none, zero; but there’s a world of difference between them and me. There are things that one should never ask about, they should just be sensed.’

  After thinking a while about the underlying meaning of his words, Sultana said, ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘So what do you say?’ he asked.

  ‘All right, you win. But I’m sure no one has ever accepted such a proposition.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You don’t have to go very far. In this very neighbourhood you’ll find many absolutely simple-minded women who would find it very difficult to believe that a woman could e
ver accept the kind of debasement you go through without even feeling its sting. But regardless of whether they accept it or not, women like you abound . . . you’re Sultana, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sultana.’

  He stood up and laughed. ‘And I’m Shankar. These names, they make no sense. Come on, let’s go to the other room.’

  When they returned to the room with the dhurrie, they were both laughing, God knows why or about what.

  Just as he was about to leave, Sultana asked, ‘Shankar, will you do something for me?’

  ‘First tell me what it is.’

  She felt a bit embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid you might think I’m trying to extract my payment. But . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, don’t stop.’

  She summoned up the courage to say, ‘The thing is, Muharram is coming and I don’t have enough money for a black shalwar. You’ve already heard from me about all our woes. I gave my shirt and dupatta to be dyed just this morning.’

  Shankar heard her and said, ‘So you want me to give you money for a black shalwar?’

  She quickly replied, ‘No, I don’t mean quite that. But, if possible, could you get me a black shalwar?’

  Shankar smiled. ‘When did I ever have any money in my pocket? If I do occasionally, call it pure luck. Anyway, I’ll try. You’ll get your shalwar on the first day of Muharram. Happy now?’

  He glanced at Sultana’s earrings and said, ‘Can you give me those earrings?’

  ‘What will you do with them,’ she asked, laughing. ‘They’re pretty ordinary silver earrings . . . worth five rupees at the most.’

  ‘I’m asking for the earrings, not their price. Will you?’

  ‘You can have them.’ She removed the earrings and handed them over to Shankar, only to regret it later, but by then Shankar was long gone.

  She absolutely didn’t believe that Shankar would keep his word. But eight days later, on the first of Muharram, she heard a knock at the door at nine in the morning. She opened the door. Shankar was standing in front of her. He handed her something wrapped in a newspaper and said, ‘It’s a black satin shalwar. Have a look at it. It might be a bit long on you. I have to go now.’

  He just handed over the packet and left without saying anything more. His pants looked crumpled and his hair was pretty messy, as though he’d just gotten up and headed straight to her flat.

  Sultana undid the wrapping. It was a black satin shalwar, exactly like the one she’d seen at Mukhtar’s. She felt overjoyed. The regret she’d felt over her earrings and the ‘transaction’ with Shankar evaporated into thin air. He had lived up to his promise and she’d got her shalwar.

  At noon she collected her shirt and dupatta, now dyed black, from the laundry. After she’d changed into her black outfit she heard someone rapping on the door. She opened it. Mukhtar walked in. She saw the three-piece ensemble on Sultana and said, ‘The shirt and dupatta both look dyed, but the shalwar is new. When did you have it made?’

  ‘The tailor delivered it just this morning.’ As she said this, her glance fell on Mukhtar’s earrings. ‘When did you get these?’ she asked.

  ‘Just today.’

  And then neither could say anything for a while.

  Siraj

  Dhondo stood leaning against the lamp post outside the Irani teahouse near the park across from the Nagpara Police Station. He came there regularly, normally around sundown, and conducted his business until four in the morning.

  No one knew his real name, but everyone called him Dhondo—quite an appropriate appellation considering that his business was procuring suitable girls for his clients, depending on their tastes and dispositions.

  He’d been in this business for nearly ten years. Thousands of girls of every colour, religion and disposition had passed through his hands during this time.

  And this spot had been his hangout from the day he began this business: across from the Nagpara Police Station, right in front of the park, outside the Irani teahouse, leaning against the lamp post. The lamp post had become his trademark, and to me it was Dhondo himself. Whenever I happened to pass by and my glance fell on this lamp post where countless people had wiped their fingers, leaving lime and catechu stains, I would suddenly feel as though Dhondo was standing there, chewing his paan wrapped around shards of roasted betel nut.

  The lamp post was quite tall and so was Dhondo. A network of power lines extended outward from the top: one line running all the way to the next lamp post before getting lost in that post’s maze of similar lines; another went to an adjacent building; still another to a shop. That the reach of this lamp post extended quite far and, along with its mates’, spread over the entire city was beyond question.

  The telephone administration had attached a box-shaped terminal to this lamp post. Now and then it was used to check the condition of the telephone wires. I often thought of Dhondo as a similar box, attached to the lamp post to help maintain the sexual health of people. He knew all the seths living in the area who needed their sexual wires, loose or taut, restored to perfect working condition from time to time, or all the time.

  He also knew all the girls in the profession, the smallest attribute of their bodies, their temperaments, and who would be best suited for a particular client at a particular time—all the girls, that is, except Siraj. He hadn’t been able to get a handle on her so far, or delve down to her depths.

  He often told me, ‘Saali, she’s gone cuckoo. I just can’t make her out, Manto Sahib. What kind of girl is she? Now this, now that—refuses to make up her mind. One minute she’s fire, next minute water. She’ll be laughing her head off one moment, then suddenly break into sobs the next. She can’t get along with anyone, saali! Very bitchy. Fights with every “passenger”. I’ve told her repeatedly, “Look, get your head examined, or else go back to where you came from. You have no clothes on your body, nothing to fill your stomach. Fighting won’t work, dearie.” But does she listen, the pighead!’

  I’d seen Siraj a couple of times. She looked skinny, but rather beautiful. Her eyes were much too large for her oval face, looming menacingly, as if bent on extracting from everyone an admission of her superiority. I was quite disconcerted when I first saw her on Clare Road. The desire to ask those eyes to step aside so that I could look at the real Siraj stirred in me, but they didn’t budge, though I’m sure they understood my meaning.

  She had a slight but compact frame, like a goblet filled beyond capacity with watered-down spirits that thrashed and spilled out from the pressure.

  I say ‘watered-down spirits’ because she had the bitter taste of strong liquors, but it seemed as if some crook had added water to increase the volume. Whatever amount of femininity she had was still there, not an atom less. Her irritation oozed out of her thick hair, pointy nose, tightly pressed lips and her fingers, which reminded me of the sharpened pencils of draughtsmen. It gave me the impression that she was perpetually cross with everything and everyone: Dhondo, the lamp post against which he always leaned, the clients he propositioned for her, and even the exceptionally big eyes that dominated her entire face. But most especially she was angry at her sharp-pointed draughtsmen’s pencils because they had failed to draw the map of her life the way she wanted it to be.

  These, at any rate, are the impressions of a short story writer who can ascribe to the softest of moles the rigidity of a black stone. Dhondo, of course, had his own views. He said to me one day: ‘Manto Sahib, saali got me into trouble again. Fortunately, the recompense for some good deed I may have once done came in handy and I was saved. Thanks to your blessings, all the officers of the Nagpara Police Station are soft on me, otherwise I’d have been in the slammer yesterday. She raised such hell, baap re baap!’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘The same thing that always happens. I cursed my seven generations up and down. I said to myself, “Bastard, why do you keep finding clients for her? Is she your mother or your sister that you’re so concerned about her? Why?” Manto Sahib, I’
m at my wits’ end.’

  We were sitting in the Irani teahouse. Dhondo poured his coffee–tea mixture into the saucer and started slurping it.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  He threw his head back, saying, ‘Don’t know why. I wish I did. Maybe this daily misery would end then.’ All of a sudden he turned his cup upside down on the saucer and said, ‘Did you know, she’s still a virgin!’

  Believe me, that unsettled me for a moment. ‘Virgin—how so?’

  ‘I swear by your life.’

  ‘No, Dhondo, that can’t be,’ I said as though I wanted to edit my earlier comment.

  He didn’t appreciate my doubting his word. ‘I’m not lying to you, Manto Sahib. One hundred per cent virgin. You can bet on it.’

  ‘How can that be,’ was all I was able to say.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded with conviction. ‘A girl like Siraj can keep her virginity intact all her life, even in this profession. She won’t let anyone touch her. I don’t know her full history, but I do know this: She’s a Punjaban. She worked with a madam on Lamington Road for two or three months. The madam threw her out; she had quarrelled with every passenger. The madam had other girls, ten, maybe twenty, but Manto Sahib, how long can one just keep feeding someone. The madam threw her out; she had nothing but the clothes she was wearing. Then she went to another madam on Faras Road. There too she remained as much of a nutcase as ever. She bit one passenger. She only lasted a couple of months. A real fireball! Who’d want to cool her down? Then—so help me God!—she hung out at a hotel in Khetwadi, where she raised the same hell all over again. The manager got fed up and packed her off. What can I say, Manto Sahib! She doesn’t care about food or drink. Her clothes are infested with lice, head unwashed for months. Loves to smoke joints when she can lay her hands on any. And stand in front of some restaurant, listening to film songs on the radio.’

  This was more than enough detail for me. How I reacted to it is my concern, not something I should tell you, not as a short story writer anyway.