My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  MISS SILDHANA: Yes.

  DR JALAL: So did I . . . although to play with him a little bit, I didn’t . . .

  MISS SILDHANA: Me too . . . I felt like not letting her have the go-ahead . . . just for fun.

  DR JALAL: I kind of felt sorry for him.

  MISS SILDHANA: So did I.

  DR JALAL: After holding back for a whole year he . . .

  MISS SILDHANA: Yes, after a whole year.

  DR JALAL: You know what? His pulse quickened as soon as I gave him the thumbs up.

  MISS SILDHANA: So did hers.

  DR JALAL: He was afraid. He asked me, ‘Doctor, it seems as though my heart has weakened . . . Won’t you take my electrocardiogram?’

  MISS SILDHANA: She asked for it too!

  DR JALAL: Instead, I gave him a shot.

  MISS SILDHANA: So did I. A shot of only distilled water.

  DR JALAL: Distilled water is perfect . . . the best.

  MISS SILDHANA: Jalal, what if you were this Begum’s husband?

  DR JALAL: And you this man’s wife?

  MISS SILDHANA: It would have ruined my character.

  DR JALAL: And it would have killed me.

  MISS SILDHANA: People would also have taken it as a flaw in your character.

  DR JALAL: So what’s new . . . every time we visit these foolhardy socialites, we damage our character.

  MISS SILDHANA: It will be damaged today no less.

  DR JALAL: In fact, quite a bit.

  MISS SILDHANA: But theirs take long intervals to spoil . . . and that’s the problem.

  *

  BEGUM SAHIBA: This thing, Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover, why is it lying under your pillow?

  MIAN SAHIB: I wanted to find out just how smutty it is.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Well then, I’ll look at it along with you.

  MIAN SAHIB: All right. I’ll pick out passages at random and read them to you . . . you listen.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Suits me fine.

  MIAN SAHIB: I’ve already changed our middle son’s diet after consulting the doctor.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I was sure you wouldn’t be negligent about the matter.

  MIAN SAHIB: I never put off until tomorrow what I can do today.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I know that . . . especially the thing you have in mind for today.

  MIAN SAHIB: You look very cheery today . . .

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Your charm, what else.

  MIAN SAHIB: Oh, I’m very amused . . . now, if I have your permission . . .

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Wait. Have you brushed your teeth?

  MIAN SAHIB: Yes, I have. I even rinsed my mouth with Dettol.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I did too.

  MIAN SAHIB: The fact is: We’re made just for each other.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: No doubt about it.

  MIAN SAHIB: So now, may I start reading from this wretched book at random?

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Hold on. First check my pulse.

  MIAN SAHIB: It’s a bit fast . . . now check mine.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: So is yours, a trifle fast.

  MIAN SAHIB: I wonder why.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Your heart ailment . . . what else.

  MIAN SAHIB: Makes sense. That must be it . . . but Dr Jalal said that it’s nothing to worry about.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Miss Sildhana told me the same thing.

  MIAN SAHIB: Did she give the go-ahead after a thorough examination?

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Absolutely . . . after a very thorough examination.

  MIAN SAHIB: In that case, I guess we can proceed.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: You know best . . . Hope it won’t have an adverse effect on your health . . .

  MIAN SAHIB: Or on yours either.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: One should take such a step only after long, hard deliberation . . .

  MIAN SAHIB: Miss Sildhana has taken care of that, hasn’t she?

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Of what? Oh yes—yes, she has.

  MIAN SAHIB: You mean, it’s perfectly safe?

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Yes, it is.

  MIAN SAHIB: Okay, take my pulse again.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: It’s normal . . . Now check mine.

  MIAN SAHIB: Yours is normal too.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Read now, some passage from this dirty book.

  MIAN SAHIB: As you say. My pulse is jumping again.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: So is mine.

  MIAN SAHIB: Have you had the servants put the necessary stuff in the room?

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Yes. Everything is here.

  MIAN SAHIB: If you don’t mind, please take my pulse again.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Can’t you take it yourself . . . The stopwatch is handy.

  MIAN SAHIB: Yes, we should note it down too.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Where are the smelling salts?

  MIAN SAHIB: Got to be with the rest of the stuff.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Yes, they’re there on the teapoy.

  MIAN SAHIB: I think we should raise the temperature in the room a bit.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Yes, we should.

  MIAN SAHIB: If you see me growing faint, please don’t forget to give me medicine.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I will try if . . .

  MIAN SAHIB: Yes, but otherwise, please don’t bother.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Read, read this whole page.

  MIAN SAHIB: Okay, listen . . .

  BEGUM SAHIBA: What—you sneezed?

  MIAN SAHIB: Don’t know why.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I’m amazed.

  MIAN SAHIB: I no less.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I know . . . I lowered the thermostat instead of raising it. Forgive me.

  MIAN SAHIB: I think it was good that I sneezed. It alerted us in time.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: I really am very sorry.

  MIAN SAHIB: Oh, don’t worry. Twelve drops of brandy will take care of it.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Stop! Let me pour them out. You always mess up the count.

  MIAN SAHIB: Very true. You pour.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Drink slowly . . . very slowly.

  MIAN SAHIB: This is slow enough.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: So how do you feel now—better?

  MIAN SAHIB: I’m getting there.

  BEGUM SAHIBA: Maybe you should rest a little.

  MIAN SAHIB: I was feeling the need for it myself.

  *

  MALE SERVANT: What’s the matter. No sign of Begum Sahiba anywhere today.

  MAID: She isn’t feeling well.

  MALE SERVANT: Mian Sahib isn’t feeling well either.

  MAID: We saw that coming—didn’t we?

  MALE SERVANT: Yes. But I’m at a loss to understand . . .

  MAID: Understand what?

  MALE SERVANT: These games Nature plays. We should have been on our deathbed* today instead.

  MAID: What kind of talk is that? It’s they who should be on their deathbeds.

  MALE SERVANT: Now don’t bring up their being on deathbeds . . . that would be a marvellous sight to see. I’d be seized by this overwhelming desire to gather her into my arms and carry her into my little room.

  MAID: Where are you going?

  MALE SERVANT: To look for a carpenter . . . that damned cot, it’s about to crumble.

  MAID: Yes, of course. Tell him to use very sturdy wood this time.

  Green Sandals

  ‘I don’t think I can put up with you any more. Please divorce me.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what kind of talk is that? You know what, your biggest problem is that every now and then these strange fits take hold of you and you completely lose your senses.’

  ‘And your senses—like they never leave you. When are you ever not drunk?’

  ‘I do drink, I admit. But I never get drunk without drinking the way you do. And I don’t spew out nonsense.’

  ‘So I talk nonsense—is that it?’

  ‘When did I say that? But stop and think, what’s all this talk about a divorce?’

  ‘I just want a divorce. A husband who couldn’t care less about his wife . . . what else can she want but a divorce.’

  ‘You can ask me for anything
, but not a divorce.’

  ‘As if you can really give me anything.’

  ‘So now this is another accusation you’re piling on me. What other woman could be as fortunate as you are. In the house . . .’

  ‘Curses on such fortune.’

  ‘Don’t curse it. What could have displeased you so? I love you dearly, honest. Believe me.’

  ‘God save me from such love.’

  ‘Okay, stop making these caustic jibes. Tell me, have the girls gone to school?’

  ‘Why should you care whether they go to school or to hell? Oh, how I pray that they’d die.’

  ‘One of these days I might have to yank your tongue out with a pair of red-hot tongs. Uttering such nonsense about your own daughters . . . Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘I’m warning you: Don’t use foul language with me! It’s you who should be ashamed. You talk to your wife as though she’s some street girl, rather than with respect and deference. It’s all due to the bad company you keep.’

  ‘And the kink you’ve got in your brain—what’s the cause of that?

  ‘You. What else?’

  ‘It’s always me you have to dump on. God knows what’s happened to you.’

  ‘What’s happened to me? Nothing. It’s you who’s gone mad. Always breathing down my neck. I’ve told you, I want a divorce.’

  ‘Want to marry someone else, do you? Tired of me?’

  ‘Shame on you. What kind of woman do you take me for?’

  ‘So why do you want a divorce? What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll get the hell out of here. Go anywhere that I can find a room. I’ll work, work hard to put food on the table for my children and myself.’

  ‘You, working hard—ha! You get up at nine in the morning and go back to bed after breakfast. After lunch you take a three-hour nap. Hard work—huh! Don’t deceive yourself.’

  ‘Oh really! I’m the one who’s sleeping all the time, and you, you’re awake all day long! Just yesterday your office boy was here. He was saying that our Afsar Sahib is always dozing off with his head on his desk.’

  ‘Who was that son-of-a-bitch?’

  ‘Mind your tongue.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just furious. When you’re angry, it’s hard to control your tongue.’

  ‘I’m angry too . . . angry at you, but I haven’t used such filthy language. One must never overstep the limits of propriety. You hang out with lowly people and now you’ve picked up their foul language.’

  ‘Just who are these lowly people whom I hang out with?’

  ‘That fellow who says he’s a big cloth merchant . . . Have you ever seen the kind of clothes he wears: such crummy stuff, and grimy besides. Says he has a BA but his attitude, his manners, his conduct—God, they’re revolting!’

  ‘He’s a majzub, god-enraptured.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. I’d be wasting my time explaining it to you.’

  ‘Oh, your time is so precious, is it? You can’t afford to waste it explaining just one little thing?’

  ‘What, exactly, are you trying to say?’

  ‘Nothing. I said what I wanted to. Divorce me so that I’m finally rid of this daily squabbling that has made my life a living hell.’

  ‘Even a word full of love makes your life hell—is there a cure for it?’

  ‘Yes, there is. Divorce.’

  ‘All right, then, send for a maulvi. If this is what you want, I won’t stand in your way.’

  ‘How am I going to send for one?’

  ‘Aren’t you the one who is asking for a divorce? If I wanted it, I would have summoned ten maulvis in one minute flat. Don’t expect me to help you out in this. It’s your business, you find a way.’

  ‘You can’t even do this much for me?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘Haven’t you been telling me all this time that your love for me is limitless?’

  ‘Yes, only to be together, not to break apart.’

  ‘What am I to do then?’

  ‘That’s your business. And look, don’t bother me any more now. Send for a maulvi, have him draft the papers and I’ll sign them.’

  ‘What about the mehr?’*

  ‘What about it? You’re initiating the divorce. The question of payment doesn’t arise.’

  ‘That’s really something!’

  ‘Your brother is a barrister. Ask him. He’ll tell you that when a woman asks for a divorce, she forfeits her right to demand mehr.’

  ‘In that case, you divorce me.’

  ‘Why would I do such a foolish thing? I love you.’

  ‘Spare me your wheedling. I don’t like it. You wouldn’t treat me so shabbily if you really loved me.’

  ‘When have I treated you shabbily?’

  ‘As if you don’t know. Just yesterday or the day before you wiped your shoes on my brand-new sari.’

  ‘I did not! I swear.’

  ‘So maybe it was ghosts who did.’

  ‘All I know is this: Your three daughters were wiping their shoes with your sari. I even scolded them.’

  ‘They are not so ill-mannered.’

  ‘Oh, but they are, quite a bit. And you know why—because you haven’t bothered to teach them good manners. Ask them when they’re back from school whether or not they were wiping their shoes on your sari.’

  ‘I don’t have to ask them anything.’

  ‘What’s gotten into your head today? If only I could crack it, I might be able to do something about it.’

  ‘You keep thinking about that something. I know what I have to do. Let’s make it short: Divorce me. There’s no point in living with a husband who doesn’t care about his wife.’

  ‘I have always cared for you.’

  ‘Do you know that tomorrow is Eid?’

  ‘Of course I do. Just yesterday I bought new shoes for the girls and I gave you sixty rupees for their frocks a week ago.’

  ‘As if that was a big favour to me, why, even to my father and his father.’

  ‘No, it’s not a question of doing a favour, to you or to anybody. Just tell me, what’s bugging you.’

  ‘All right, if you want to know. Sixty rupees weren’t enough. The organdie cloth alone for three girls cost sixty rupees. The tailor charged seven rupees for each of the three frocks. You think this is a favour to the girls and me? Hardly.’

  ‘So you made up the shortfall from your pocket?’

  ‘If I didn’t, who would have stitched their frocks?’

  ‘Let me give you the difference, right now. Oh, I get it. So this is what was upsetting you.’

  ‘Eid is tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m ordering two chickens . . . sevaiyan, too. And you—what preparations have you made?’

  ‘Nothing—how can I?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to wear a green sari tomorrow. I had ordered a pair of green sandals to go with it. I asked you so many times to find out from the Chinese shoe shop if they were ready, but why would you? When have I ever meant a thing to you?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. Now I see. So all this bickering is over the green sandals. But I already brought them two days ago. The package is in your closet. You probably never opened it. You’re always lazing around all day long.’

  The Gold Ring

  ‘Your hair looks like a rat’s nest. Some new fashion or what? Can’t understand.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. If you ever had to go through the hassle of getting a haircut, you would know the value of the peace that comes with letting your hair grow long.’

  ‘Why would I want to get a haircut in the first place?’

  ‘Women do. Thousands, indeed tens of thousands are getting their hair clipped short like men to keep up with the current rage.’

  ‘A curse upon them.’

  ‘Whose curse?’

  ‘God’s—who else’s? Hair is a woman’s ornament. It’s mind-boggling that they should want to have it cropped short a
nd parade about in pants like men. May they perish from the earth!’

  ‘No matter how hard you pray, they’re not about to perish from the earth. But I do agree with you about one thing: Women shouldn’t wear pants, otherwise called slacks. And, yes, they shouldn’t smoke either.’

  ‘While you can go through a whole tin of cigarettes in a day.’

  ‘That doesn’t count—I’m a man. I’m allowed to.’

  ‘Who allowed you? I’m rationing your cigarettes; you’ll get only one pack a day from now on.’

  ‘And your girlfriends, the ones who visit you all the time to snitch my cigarettes—where will they get their supply?’

  ‘They . . . they don’t smoke.’

  ‘That’s a blatant lie. Whenever one of them drops in, you grab my tin, why, even my matches, and disappear into the living room. Often I have to call you to return it. And when I do get it back, it’s always short half a dozen cigarettes.’

  ‘Half a dozen—you’re the one who’s lying! My poor friends, they hardly smoke one cigarette.’

  ‘What can be “hardly” about smoking one cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you about it. You love to argue; it’s as though you have nothing else to do.’

  ‘Why, I have a million things to do. Besides, it’s not like you have a whole field to plough. You lie around in bed all day long.’

  ‘And you stay awake around the clock drowned in some wazifa?’

  ‘No, not wazifa, although I can say with confidence that I sleep only six hours at night.’

  ‘And how many hours during the day?’

  ‘None. I don’t sleep; I just stretch out on my back for three, maybe four hours with my eyes closed. It’s very relaxing. All the fatigue slowly washes away.’

  ‘But where does your fatigue come from? You don’t do any hard work like a labourer.’

  ‘I get up at the crack of dawn, read newspapers, eat breakfast, take a shower, and then get ready to put up with your bitching. That’s hard work.’

  ‘You call it hard work? So tell me, how true is this accusation of bitching?’

  ‘As true as it can be. In the early days, I mean for the first two years after our marriage, life was so pleasant and peaceful, and then suddenly, God knows what got into you, and you made it your routine to quarrel with me every day. I wonder what the reason is.’

  ‘The reason always escapes you men. You never tried to understand.’

  ‘When did you ever leave me in peace long enough to understand it? Every day you find one thing or another to bitch about. What was the matter today that you started making so much fuss over?’