My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  ‘Not yet, potter’s ass,’ came the answer.

  Rub Nawaz was a potter by caste. His blood boiled whenever anyone even vaguely hinted at his origins. Only with Ram Singh it was different. Rub Nawaz didn’t let it get on his nerves with him because Ram Singh was a special chum of his. They had grown up in the same village and were born only a few days apart. Not just their fathers, even their grandfathers had enjoyed close, friendly ties. Rub Nawaz and Ram Singh had gone to the same primary school and enlisted in the army on the same day. In the last Great War they had fought side by side on several fronts.

  Feeling embarrassed before his men Rub Nawaz mumbled, ‘Pig’s ass, he never gives it up.’ And then he hollered at Ram Singh, ‘Don’t go shooting off your mouth, you lice-infested donkey.’

  Ram Singh’s loud laugh shot through the air. Rub Nawaz had his gun aimed in the direction of the enemy and let it go off playfully. A scream tore through the air. He quickly peered into the binoculars and saw a man rise and hobble out from behind the stone bulwark, doubled over. Holding his stomach, the man crumbled to the ground after going a short distance. It was Ram Singh.

  ‘Ram Singh!’ Rub Nawaz screamed and jumped to his feet. Immediately, three or four shots were fired from the other side. One bullet brushed past his right arm. He quickly threw himself on the ground face down. His men started firing back but failed to hit the enemy, so he ordered them to attack. Three lost their lives within seconds but the rest kept advancing and, with great difficulty, finally managed to capture the other hill.

  Ram Singh was lying on the rocky ground in a pool of blood, groaning. He had been hit in the stomach. A gleam appeared in his eyes when he saw Rub Nawaz. Smiling he said, ‘You potter’s ass, you did this . . . Whatever for?’

  Rub Nawaz felt as if he was the one who had been shot in the stomach and was now writhing in agony. He smiled, bent over Ram Singh and started to unfasten his belt. ‘Pig’s ass, who asked you to stand up?’

  As his belt was loosened, Ram Singh cried out from the intensity of the pain. Rub Nawaz examined the wound. It was very nasty. Ram Singh pressed Rub Nawaz’s hand and mumbled in a feeble voice, ‘I only got up to show myself to you and you fired, you son of a gun.’

  ‘I fired just for the heck of it. I swear to God, the One and Only One,’ Rub Nawaz said in a choking voice. ‘I knew you, always an ass, were getting up . . . I’m so sorry.’

  Ram Singh had lost a lot of blood. It had taken a few hours for Rub Nawaz and his men to get over here, long enough for Ram Singh to lose a whole bucket’s worth of blood. Rub Nawaz was amazed that Ram Singh was still alive. He didn’t expect him to last long. Moving him was out of the question. He got on the wireless and requested his platoon commander to dispatch a medic immediately; his friend Ram Singh had been wounded badly.

  Rub Nawaz knew it would be impossible for the medic to arrive in time and that it was a matter of minutes before Ram Singh’s life ebbed away. After sending the message he smiled and said to Ram Singh, ‘The medic is on his way. Don’t worry.’

  In a sinking voice, Ram Singh said pensively, ‘Why would I worry . . . But tell me, how many of my men have you killed.’

  ‘Only one.’

  ‘And yours?’ Ram Singh inquired still more feebly.

  ‘Six,’ Rub Nawaz lied, giving his men a meaningful look.

  ‘Six . . . six,’ Ram Singh counted in his heart. ‘My men lost their spirit when I was wounded. But I told them to fight on, risking their lives . . . Six, yes.’ Then his mind drifted off into a hazy past. ‘Rub Nawaz . . . you remember those days, don’t you?’

  And he went down memory lane, talking about their childhood, their village, the stories of their schooldays and of their time in the 6/9 Jat Regiment, the jokes about their commanding officers and their affairs with strange women in foreign lands. Somewhere along the way he remembered something interesting and let out a big laugh, which sent a wave of excruciating pain through his body, but he paid no attention to it and said, still laughing, ‘You, pig’s balls, you remember that madam?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one in Italy. We used to call her . . . What was it now? Some woman she was, a real man-eater . . .’

  Rub Nawaz remembered her right away. ‘Yes, yes, that . . . Madame Moneyto Finito, “no money, no action”. But now and then she let you have a ride for less, that daughter of Mussolini.’

  Ram Singh laughed loudly, some clotted blood gushing from his wound as a result. Rub Nawaz’s makeshift bandage had slipped off. He secured it in place and admonished Ram Singh, ‘Don’t talk.’

  Ram Singh was running a high fever and this made his brain work faster. Although he had no strength left, he was babbling on and on, stopping briefly now and then as if to check how much petrol was still left in his tank. Soon afterward he lapsed into a delirium punctuated by moments of perfect lucidity. During one lucid moment, he asked Rub Nawaz, ‘Yaar, tell me honestly, do you people really want Kashmir?’

  Rub Nawaz replied in all earnestness, ‘Yes, Ram Singha, we do.’

  ‘No, no, I can’t believe it. You’ve been taken for a ride.’

  ‘No, it’s you who’s been taken for a ride,’ Rub Nawaz said emphatically to convince him. ‘I swear by Panchtan Pak.’

  ‘No, yaar, don’t swear.’ Ram Singh grabbed his hand as he said, ‘Maybe you’re right.’ But it was evident from his tone that he didn’t believe Rub Nawaz.

  Major Aslam, the platoon commander, arrived with some of his soldiers a little before sundown, but there was no medic. Floating between semi-consciousness and the throes of death, Ram Singh was babbling about something, but his voice was so weak and broken that it was difficult to make out his words. Major Aslam had also been part of the 6/9 Jat Regiment and knew Ram Singh quite well. He had Rub Nawaz tell him the details about what had transpired and then he called out, ‘Ram Singh! Ram Singh!’

  Ram Singh opened his eyes and came to attention still lying on the ground. He raised his arm with great difficulty and saluted. For a moment he looked at the major closely and then his rigid arm fell limply to his side. He started to murmur in visible irritation, ‘O Ram Singha, you pig’s balls, you forgot this is a war . . . a war . . .’

  He couldn’t finish. His slowly closing eyes looked at Rub Nawaz with bewilderment and then he turned cold.

  A Tale of the Year 1919

  ‘This, brother, is about an event that occurred in 1919. All of Punjab—Amritsar, to be more exact—was in the throes of awful turmoil due to the Rowlatt Act. Under the Defence of India Rules, Sir Michael O’Dwyer had banned Gandhiji’s entry into the Punjab. Gandhiji was on his way there when he was stopped at Palwal, arrested, and sent back to Bombay. In my opinion, had the British not acted so rashly, the Jallianwala Bagh incident wouldn’t have added such a gory chapter to the dark history of their rule.

  ‘Whether Muslim, Hindu or Sikh, everyone held Gandhiji in the highest esteem and considered him a Mahatma. The minute the news of his arrest reached Lahore, all business came to a dead stop. And in Amritsar the news led to an almost immediate general strike.

  ‘It is said that the Deputy Commissioner had already received orders for the expulsion of Dr Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew on the evening of 9 April but he was unwilling to enforce them. He didn’t think anything untoward was likely to happen in Amritsar. Protest demonstrations had been generally peaceful so far; the question of violence didn’t arise. I’m telling you what I witnessed myself. It was the day of the Ram Navami festival. A procession was taken out, but no one dared take a single step against the wishes of the rulers. However, brother, this Sir Michael—he had lost his mind. Obsessed as he was with the fear that these leaders were simply waiting for a sign from Mahatma Gandhi to overthrow British rule, and that a conspiracy was lurking behind all these demonstrations and strikes, he ignored the wishes of the Deputy Commissioner.

  ‘The news of Dr Satyapal’s and Dr Kitchlew’s expulsion had spread through the city like wildfire. Every heart was tense
with apprehension, fearing that something dreadful was about to happen. Yes, brother, there was a palpable feeling of heightened emotion everywhere. All businesses had come to a standstill and a deathly silence had enveloped the city, the kind that pervades cemeteries. However, the surface calm was not without the resonance of the passion raging beneath it. Following the news of the expulsion orders, people began to assemble in thousands, intending to march to the Deputy Commissioner Bahadur and petition him to rescind the orders seeking the banishment of their beloved leaders. But, my brother, those were not the times when petitions were heard; a tyrant in the guise of Sir Michael was the chief administrator. Would he hear the petition? Not a chance. He declared the gathering itself in violation of the law.

  ‘Amritsar, once the biggest centre of the freedom struggle, wearing the wounds of Jallianwala Bagh like a proud emblem—ah, what straits it is in today! But let’s not linger over that painful story. It weighs heavily on the heart. People blame the British for the ghastly events that were visited upon this great city five years ago. Maybe they were. But, brother, if the truth be told, our own hands were equally stained with the blood that was shed there. But that’s another matter . . .

  ‘Like every other big officer and all the toadies of the British, the Deputy Sahib’s bungalow was located in the exclusive area of the Civil Lines. Now, if you are familiar with Amritsar, you would know that a bridge connects the city with this quarter. Once you cross this bridge, you come on to the Mall where the British rulers had built themselves this earthly paradise.

  ‘Anyway, when the procession was nearing the Hall Gate it came to be known that mounted British troops were posted on the bridge. However, the crowd marched on undaunted. I can’t even begin to describe how excited they were. But every last one of them was unarmed; no one had even a measly stick on him to speak of. They only wanted to lodge a collective protest against the arrest of Dr Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew and press for their unconditional release. The procession kept advancing on the bridge. The goras opened fire when the protesters got close. Suddenly a stampede broke out. There were only a few dozen troops and the crowd numbered in the hundreds, but, brother, bullets can knock the daylights out of anyone. An unimaginable confusion erupted. Some were wounded by gunshots, others trampled underfoot.

  ‘I was standing near the edge of a filthy ditch on the right. A violent push threw me into it. After the firing stopped I pulled myself out. The people had scattered. The wounded were lying on the road and the gora soldiers were on the bridge, laughing. What my mental state was at the time I have no idea, but I couldn’t have been in full possession of my senses. The fall into the ditch had completely disoriented me. It was only after I had pulled myself out that the whole event began to slowly reconstruct itself in my mind.

  ‘I could hear a terrible noise rising far in the distance, as if some people were screaming and yelling angrily. I crossed the length of the ditch and, going through the tomb-sanctuary of Zahira Pir, arrived at Hall Gate. There I saw a group of thirty or forty extremely agitated young men throwing rocks at the big clock above the Gate. When the glass on the clock shattered and fell to the ground, one of the young men shouted to the rest of his mates, “Let’s go and smash the Queen’s statue!”

  ‘Another one suggested, “No, yaar, let’s set the police headquarters on fire instead.”

  ‘“And all the banks,” added a third.

  ‘A fourth young man stopped them. “Wait! What’s the point of that? Let’s go to the bridge and make short work of the goras.”

  ‘I recognized this fellow; he was Thaila Kunjar, tall, athletic and quite handsome. His real name was Muhammad Tufail, but he was better known as kunjar because he was the offspring of a prostitute. He was quite the tramp and had become addicted to gambling and drinking at a young age. His sisters Shamshad and Almas were the most beautiful prostitutes of their time. Shamshad had an exquisite voice and the filthy rich travelled great distances just to attend her mujras. The sisters had had enough of their brother’s unseemly conduct. It was known throughout the city that they had more or less disowned him. Even so, one way or other, he always managed to trick them into giving him whatever he needed. He always looked dapper, ate and drank well, had refined tastes, and was full of wit and humour, with none of the ribald vulgarity associated with bhands and miraasis.

  ‘The agitated young men paid no heed to his words and started advancing towards the Queen’s statue. “I said don’t waste your energy,” Thaila admonished them again. “Come with me. Let’s beat the hell out of the goras who murdered our innocent people. Together we can easily wring their necks. Come on!”

  ‘By then some boys had already left for the statue, the rest halted and followed Thaila as he started for the bridge. I thought to myself, these boys, their mothers’ darlings, are walking towards certain death. From my hiding place near the fountain, I called out to Thaila, “Don’t go, yaar, why do you want to risk your life and theirs?”

  ‘He let out a strange, raucous laugh and said, “Thaila wants the goras to know that their bullets won’t scare him away.” He then turned to his companions and added, “If you’re afraid, you’re free to leave.”

  ‘In a situation such as this it’s hard to go back once you’ve started, especially when your leader is going forward fearlessly, showing little regard for his life.

  ‘The bridge isn’t all that far from the Hall Gate, some sixty or seventy yards at most. Thaila was ahead of everyone. Twenty steps away, where the railings of the bridge began, two mounted goras stood on guard. When Thaila approached the railings, shouting slogans, a shot was fired. I thought he had fallen, but he continued to advance undaunted. His pals panicked and took to their heels. He turned around and shouted, “Don’t run away. Come on!”

  ‘He was facing me as he said that, but then he turned to look at the goras while reaching with his hand to feel his back. In spite of the distance, I saw that red spots had appeared on his white bosky shirt. He darted forward like a wounded tiger. Another gunshot rang out. He wobbled a little and then pounced on one of the mounted goras. Within a second, the saddle was empty and the gora was flat on the ground with Thaila on top of him. The other soldier, a bit confused at first, tried to rein in his horse, which was bolting from fright, and then started shooting wildly. I haven’t the foggiest idea what happened next for I blacked out and fell to the ground by the fountain.

  ‘When I came to, brother, I found myself in my own house. Apparently some people who knew me had carried me there. I learned from them that the crowd, after being fired upon at the bridge, had become so enraged that it had attempted to knock down the Queen’s statue. The Town Hall and three banks were torched. About half a dozen Europeans were butchered and widespread looting had ensued.

  ‘The Brits didn’t care much about the looting; it was the murder of half a dozen Europeans that raised their hackles. The result was the bloody massacre at Jallianwala Bagh. Deputy Commissioner Bahadur had handed over the city to General Dyer and, on 12 April, General Sahib marched with his troops through numerous bazaars in the city, arresting many dozens of innocent citizens.

  ‘The following day some twenty-five thousand people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in a peaceful meeting. General Dyer arrived at the scene towards evening with a contingent of armed Gorkha and Sikh soldiers who opened fire on the unarmed civilians.

  ‘No one had a clear idea of the number of casualties. Later, when the matter was investigated, it was revealed that about a thousand people had been mowed down and three to four thousand were wounded. . . . But I was talking about Thaila. I’m telling you about what I saw myself . . . God alone is perfect. Thaila, of course, couldn’t be. On the contrary, he had all four major shar‘i faults. Though a prostitute’s womb had nurtured him, he was exceptionally brave. I can now say without a doubt that when he turned around, looked at his companions and urged them to keep their spirits up, he had already taken the first bullet fired by that accursed gora. In the heat of the moment, he li
kely hadn’t realized that red-hot lead had penetrated his chest. The second bullet hit him in the back, the third again pierced his chest. I didn’t see it myself but I’ve heard that when Thaila’s corpse was disengaged from the gora, his fingers were still dug so deeply into the throat of the gora who’d already gone to hell that only with tremendous effort could the two be pulled apart.

  ‘The next day his body, riddled with bullet holes, was delivered to his family for burial. Apparently the other gora had emptied his revolver into a dead Thaila merely for target practice.

  ‘People say that when his corpse arrived it stirred up quite a commotion among the residents of his neighbourhood. True, he was not well liked by his folks, but the sight of his mangled body made everyone burst into loud crying. His sisters Shamshad and Almas fainted on the spot. As the bier was carried out for burial, their agonized wailing touched everyone so deeply that they couldn’t stop their tears—tears of blood.

  ‘Brother, I’ve read somewhere that it was a prostitute who was struck down by the first shot fired during the French Revolution. Muhammad Tufail was the son of a prostitute. No one has bothered to find out whether it was the first bullet, the fifth or the fiftieth that felled him in this struggle for freedom, likely because the poor man didn’t pull much weight in society and amounted to nothing. I doubt Thaila Kunjar’s name appears in the record of those who were drenched in this bloodbath of Punjab, or even that such a record was ever compiled.

  ‘Those were stormy days. A military government was in power. The monster called martial law was bellowing in every street and alley of the city. The poor man was interred in great confusion and a big hurry, as if his doleful relatives were guilty of this grievous crime and wanted to erase every last trace of it.