My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  Now let me tell you about Tikka Ram. He met me twenty days later and asked, ‘Where’s Rukma?’ I told him I had no idea. ‘No, you damn well know,’ he insisted with a veiled threat in his voice. I said, ‘Brother, I swear by the Qur’an, I know nothing about her.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re lying. You’ve killed her. I’m going to file a report with the police. I’ll tell them that first you dispatched Girdhari, then Rukma.’ He left. I broke into a sweat from sheer terror. I thought long and hard about what to do, but couldn’t think of anything except that I should get rid of him. You tell me, what else could I have done? So I took a kitchen knife and sharpened it in absolute secrecy. Then I went out looking for Tikka Ram. By chance I found him near the urinal at the corner of the street. He had just put his empty boxes of oranges down outside and gone in. I darted in after him. He was just untying his dhoti when I yelled, ‘Tikka Ram!’ The moment he turned around, I plunged the knife into his stomach. He tried with both hands to keep his guts from spilling out but doubled over and crumpled to the ground. I should have made my escape immediately, but look at the foolhardy thing I did. I started to check for his pulse to make sure he was dead. All I’d heard was that everyone has this vein, but whether it was on the left or right of the thumb I didn’t know. I was taking a long time figuring it out and that was my undoing. A constable entered unbuttoning his trousers. He grabbed me. Well, Sahib, this is the whole story, pure and simple, without a grain of falsehood. Recite the kalima: La ilaha . . .!

  Barren

  Our first encounter took place exactly two years ago today at Apollo Bunder. It was evening. In the distance, the last remnants of the sun had disappeared behind the waves, which resembled the folds of a thick, coarse fabric when looked at from the benches on the beach. I was sitting on the other side of the Gate of India on a bench next to where a man was getting a head massage. I was looking at the ocean, stretched out as far as the eye could see. At the furthermost point, where the sky and the sea came together, huge waves rose gradually, as if the sides of a dark-coloured carpet were being folded up.

  The beach lights were all on, their reflection over the water spreading thick, quivering lines on it. Below me, along the stone wall, masts and rolled-up sails swayed gently. The sound of the waves and the voices of the sightseers permeated the atmosphere like a hum. Now and then the horn of an approaching or receding car split the air like an intrusive ‘hunh!’ in the middle of the telling of an absorbing tale.

  Such a pleasant atmosphere calls for a smoke. I pulled out a packet of cigarettes but couldn’t find any matches. God knows where I had left them. I was about to put the packet back in my pocket when I heard someone nearby say, ‘Here are some matches.’

  I turned around and saw a young man standing behind the bench. Bombay residents are normally pale, but this man looked frighteningly so. I thanked him. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He handed me the matches. I thanked him again and said, ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Please light your cigarette,’ he said, ‘I have to go.’

  He seemed to be lying; it was obvious from his tone that he was neither in a hurry nor was there any particular place where he needed to be. True, you might ask how one can tell such things from a tone. But the truth is that was precisely how I felt at the time. So I said once more, ‘What’s the hurry. Have a seat,’ and offered him a cigarette. ‘Have one.’

  He looked at the packet and said, ‘Thanks, but I only smoke my own brand.’

  I could have sworn that he was lying again. And again it was his tone that betrayed him. This piqued my interest and I resolved firmly that I would make him sit down beside me and smoke one of my cigarettes. I believed this wouldn’t be too difficult because in just two sentences he had made it plain to me that he was deluding himself. He, in fact, wanted to sit down and smoke but, at the same time, he felt he should do neither. This dichotomy between yes and no was clear to me in his tone. Believe me, his very existence seemed to be suspended between being and non-being.

  His face, as I’ve already mentioned, looked incredibly pale. Apart from that, the outlines of his nose, eyes and mouth were so faint that it seemed as if someone had drawn a portrait and then given it a wash. As I looked at him, his lips would swell at times but then fade away like a spark buried under layers of ash. It was the same with his other features: eyes like two puddles of muddy water with sparse lashes drooping over them; black hair that had a hue resembling burnt paper and appeared dry and brittle like straw. You could make out the contours of his nose more easily, but from a distance it looked pretty flat, because, as I mentioned earlier, his features were not very distinct.

  He was of average height, neither tall nor short. However, when he stood a certain way, relaxing his spine, there was a marked difference in his height. Likewise, when he would suddenly stand erect, he appeared to be much taller than his true size.

  His clothes were shabby, though not grimy. His jacket sleeves were frayed at the cuffs from constant wear and tear; you could see the threads unravelling. His collar was unbuttoned and his shirt looked as though it would not survive even one more washing. Yet, despite such clothing, he was trying hard to present himself as a respectable man. I say ‘trying’ because when I had looked at him, a wave of anxiety seemed to wash over his entire being, leaving me to wonder if he wasn’t really trying to keep himself hidden from my eyes.

  I got up, lit a cigarette, and offered the packet to him. ‘Help yourself!’ The way I said it and the quickness with which I lit the match and held it out to him somehow made him forget everything. Taking a cigarette, he stuck it in his mouth and started to smoke. But then he immediately realized his mistake. He promptly removed the cigarette from his mouth, pretending to cough. ‘Cavenders don’t agree with me,’ he said. ‘They have such strong tobacco that it irritates my throat right away.’

  I asked, ‘So what brand do you smoke?’

  He stammered, ‘I . . . I actually smoke very little because Dr Arolkar has advised me not to. Otherwise I buy 555, which is pretty mild.’

  The doctor he mentioned was famous throughout Bombay; he charged a fee of ten rupees per visit. The 555 brand he mentioned, as you may well know, is very expensive. He’d now lied twice in one breath, which I found difficult to digest. Still, I kept quiet, even though I would have liked nothing better than to pull off his mask, expose his lies, and shame him into apologizing to me. However, when I looked at him I realized that whatever he said became a part of him. I didn’t see the kind of blush that usually sweeps across the face of a liar. Instead, I sensed that he truly believed whatever he said. His lies were spoken with complete sincerity. He lied with such conviction that he didn’t experience the slightest bit of guilt. Anyway, let’s drop this. Recounting all these details will require reams of paper and I would never get around to the story itself.

  After a little polite conversation that seemed to put him at ease, I offered him another cigarette and mentioned how exquisite the ocean looked. Being a storywriter, I was able to talk to him about the ocean, about Apollo Bunder and all the visitors there in such an engaging way that even after six cigarettes his throat failed to become the least bit irritated. He asked me my name. When I replied he stood up and said, ‘Oh you . . . you’re . . . Mr . . . I’ve read many of your stories . . . I didn’t know it was you. I’m very pleased to have met you. Really very pleased.’

  I wanted to thank him but he continued, ‘In fact, I remember reading one of your stories just recently. I can’t recall the title though. It’s the one about the girl who’s in love with a man but the fellow deceives her. There’s another man in the story, the narrator, who’s in love with her. When he discovers the girl’s misfortune he tells her, “You must go on living. Turn the memory of the moments you spent engrossed in his love, when you were happy, into a foundation you can build your life on.” I don’t remember it word for word, but do tell me one thing: Is it possible . . . forget possible, tell me straight up whether, by any chance, you a
re that man. Forgive me, I shouldn’t be asking such a question. I really shouldn’t . . . but were you the person who had a tryst with her on the rooftop and then went downstairs to sleep in your own room, leaving her alone in the slumbering moonlight with all the passions of her youth?’ Here he suddenly halted and then added, ‘I really shouldn’t be asking this sort of thing. After all, who opens up his heart to strangers!’

  ‘I will tell you,’ I said. ‘But somehow it does seem a bit odd to be asking and telling everything when one has just met someone for the first time.’

  His earlier excitement cooled suddenly. He said softly, ‘You’re right, but who knows whether we’ll ever meet again.’

  I said, ‘Bombay is, of course, a very large city but we can meet again, not just once but many times. I’m an idle person, I mean short story writer . . . you’ll find me here every evening, provided I’m not sick. Many young women come here to stroll and I come here to find one of them to fall in love with. Love’s not a bad thing!’

  ‘Love . . . love! . . .’ He wanted to say something more but couldn’t, and like a rope on fire he fell tortuously silent.

  I had brought up ‘love’ just to be funny. And given the absolutely delightful surroundings, I would have had no regrets about actually falling in love with someone. When the waning daylight and evening shadows meet, when the rows of street lights begin glimmering in the encroaching darkness, when the air becomes slightly chilled and the feeling of romance permeates the atmosphere—a man naturally longs to be close to a woman. It is that feeling, that need, which lies hidden in our unconscious.

  God knows which story he was referring to. I don’t remember all of my stories, especially the romantic ones. I’ve known very few women in my life. The stories I wrote about women were either because of a particular need or just to indulge in mental gratification of the senses. Since they lack sincerity, I don’t think much of them. I have observed women of a certain class and written a few stories about them, but those aren’t romances. In any case, the story he was alluding to must be one of those mediocre romances, the kind I might have written to calm my own ardour. But—what’s this?—I’ve started telling my own story.

  So when he fell silent after uttering ‘love’, I felt the urge to expand further on that subject. I began: ‘Well, it just so happens that our forefathers have enumerated many kinds of love, but as far as I’m concerned, whether love is born in Multan or on the icy plains of Siberia, whether it’s born in winter or summer, in the heart of a rich man or a poor man, whether it’s beautiful or grotesque, or whether those who fall into it are degenerate or pious, love remains love. It doesn’t change. Just as the manner of a child’s birth remains basically the same, so does love’s. Of course, it’s an entirely different matter if Saeeda Begum gives birth in a hospital while Rajkumari gives birth in a jungle, or if a sweeper-woman stirs the feelings of love in a Ghulam Muhammad while a Natwar Lal is smitten by the love of a princess. Just as children who are born prematurely remain weak after birth, so too a love born before its time suffers from weakness. Some children are born after excruciating labour; well, so are some loves—they cause a lot of pain. Just as some women miscarry, so does love miscarry for some people. And just as sterility results in an inability to conceive a child, you will find people who turn out to be incapable of love. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the desire to love has completely vanished from their hearts, or that the feeling of love has been completely smothered. No, the desire may still be there, but they lack the ability to translate that into love. Just as some women are unable to conceive because of some physical problem, so these people are unable to ignite the spark of love in the hearts of others because of some spiritual handicap.’

  I was finding my own harangue rather interesting, so I kept lecturing away without even looking at him. When I finally looked at him, I found him gazing off into space across the ocean, entirely lost in his own thoughts. I fell silent.

  The sound of a particularly loud horn suddenly jolted him out of his reverie and he blurted out absent-mindedly, ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right!’

  I thought of asking him, ‘Absolutely right? . . . Forget that. Just tell me what I’ve been saying.’ But I kept quiet, allowing him a chance to shake off his weighty thoughts.

  He went on thinking for a while and then said, ‘What you said is absolutely correct, but . . . Let’s drop this topic. It . . . well, never mind.’

  I liked what I’d been talking about. I wanted nothing more than to have someone go on listening to me, so I repeated, ‘Well, as I was saying, some men, too, turn out to be barren when it comes to love. I mean they do desire to love, but are never able to fulfil that desire. I tend to think this is due to some spiritual shortcoming. What do you think?’

  He turned even paler, as though he’d seen a ghost. The change came over him so suddenly that I became worried and asked, ‘Is everything all right? You aren’t feeling ill, are you?’

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ He sounded even more worried. ‘I’m not ill or anything like that. What makes you think I am?’

  I replied, ‘Anyone who saw you now would assume that you’re ill, extremely ill. You look frightfully pale. I think you’d better go home. Come, I’ll take you there.’

  ‘No, I’ll go myself. But I’m not ill . . . I do feel a slight pain in my chest now and then. Maybe it’s just . . . I’ll be okay. You can continue.’

  It didn’t look as though he would be able to concentrate on my words so I remained silent, but when he insisted, I resumed. ‘I was asking what you thought about people who are unable to love. I have no idea what they feel, what their inner thoughts are. But when I think of those barren women who, in the hope of conceiving a child, make fervent entreaties to God and, disappointed by Him, resort to spells and charms—bringing ash from cremation grounds, reciting night-long incantations that were given to them by sadhus, and making votive offerings—to gain the pearl of their desire, it occurs to me that a person who’s unable to love must experience a similar ordeal. Such people truly deserve compassion. I feel more for them than I do for the blind.’

  His eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed and quickly stood up. Turning his face away he said, ‘Oh, it’s late. I have an important errand to run and I seem to have lost quite a bit of time talking.’

  I also got up. He turned towards me and pressed my hand but spoke without looking at me, ‘I really must leave now,’ and walked away.

  The second time I met him was again at Apollo Bunder. Although I’m not one for taking walks, back in those days an evening stroll to Apollo Bunder had somehow become part of my daily routine. A month later, though, a longish letter from an Agra poet—which, among other things, made lewd comments about the beauties who crowded Apollo Bunder’s beaches and how lucky I was to be living in Bombay—pretty much destroyed whatever interest I may have had in the place. Now, whenever someone asks me to go there, I’m reminded of that poet’s letter and feel like throwing up. But I was talking about a time before that letter. Then, I used to go there every evening and sit on the bench next to the place where many people were in the habit of having masseurs give their skulls a good workout, rubbing and knocking.

  Day had given way to evening, with no trace of light left anywhere. The October heat was still intense, but a breeze was now blowing. Strollers, like exhausted travellers, made up most of the crowd. Behind me cars and more cars had lined up. All the benches were taken. Two chattering men, one Gujarati, the other Parsi, had settled on the bench next to me and were blabbering away in Gujarati, each with a different accent. The Parsi’s voice had only two notes, one shrill, one deep that he alternated. When they both talked rapidly at the same time, it sounded as if a parrot and a mynah were having a duel.

  Getting tired of their endless chatter, I got up and was about to head towards the Taj Mahal Hotel when I saw him coming my way. I didn’t know his name so I couldn’t call him. But when he saw me his eyes locked on, as though he’d found what he was l
ooking for.

  There were no empty benches, so I proposed, ‘It’s been a long time since we last met. Let’s go over to the restaurant. All the benches here are taken.’

  He said a few things by way of formality and came along. We walked a bit and then sat down in the large cane chairs in the restaurant. After I had ordered tea, I offered him my tin of cigarettes. Coincidentally, I had been to see Dr Arolkar just that day and he had advised me to quit smoking altogether, or, failing that, to switch to smoking better quality cigarettes, like 555. So, following the doctor’s advice I had bought this tin that very evening. He stared at the tin, then at me. He started to say something but then decided against it.