My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  There was another man with him, standing behind him as though he had Manto in his custody. He was his guarantor, or one sent by the guarantor to see him through the trial.

  I said, ‘Please, have a seat.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Please sit down,’ I repeated.

  Manto sat down hesitantly on a bench behind my deputy. I picked up his file and started studying it.

  Manto had been charged for writing and publishing his short story ‘Ūpar, Nīche, aur Darmiyān’. I had known about his case for some time now and had prepared myself for it. I had never given up my fondness for literature, but at the time I wasn’t abreast of fictional, especially Urdu fictional, literature. So, for a few months I read only short stories. I read closely through however many collections of Manto’s stories I could lay my hands on, but not the story in question nor any critical commentary on it, lest I end up with preconceived notions about the matter. You can imagine what I must have felt when Manto used the admission of his guilt as a cover.

  Meanwhile, I tried to look at him stealthily but he had disappeared from the bench and was pacing nervously on the veranda outside the courtroom.

  He came inside again and said, ‘Please wind up my case.’

  ‘All right, but do sit down, please,’ I said and started to fill in the register of cases.

  Manto resumed his position on the bench, but kept shifting continually from side to side in his place. When I was finished, I recorded, as per procedure, his confession. Everyone thought that I would fine him a large sum. But when I said, ‘Manto Sahib, I’ll give my judgement tomorrow,’ he, more than anyone else, felt terribly disappointed.

  He insisted that I settle the matter then and there. To him, this was like rendering obsolete the very purpose of an admission of guilt and the existence of magistrates. And here was I, wanting to read the story in question and think long and hard about it to establish whether it met the strictly legal definition of obscenity. Believe me, true justice requires as much genuine reflection as action; arbitrariness and mere adherence to rules go against the spirit of justice. It is a strange aspect of our times, however, that essence is always sacrificed to accident.

  In short, however unwillingly, Manto had to consent to wait for a day.

  The next day, after the court began its session, I wrote my brief judgement. Manto had come with his companion to hear the judgement in the same agitated state as was apparent on him the day before. ‘Manto Sahib,’ I asked, ‘how is your financial condition?’

  ‘Very bad.’

  ‘What is the date today?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-fifth,’ someone else answered.

  ‘Manto Sahib, I’m fining you twenty-five rupees.’

  At first he didn’t understand and said to his companion, ‘Is he asking for the date or giving his judgement?’

  His guarantor was more vigorous. He quickly went to pay the fine, and Manto again started to pace on the veranda.

  A little later I saw them both in the courtroom. ‘Yes?’ I asked. Whereupon Manto’s companion said, ‘We’ve come to bother you . . .’

  I accepted their invitation without hesitation. During court proceedings one has little opportunity to talk freely, least of all informally, and I myself wanted an informal meeting with Manto because, as far as I was concerned, he was the greatest Urdu short story writer after Munshi Premchand.

  After work I proceeded straight away to the Zelin Coffee House. Since it was filled to capacity, I waited on the staircase. When Manto and his companion materialized, I noticed that Manto looked tipsy but in full control of his senses. He paused now and then as he spoke, but it betrayed no interruption of thought. In the middle of addressing me he would sometimes make some pointed comments about me to his companion, every word of which sounded utterly sincere and unpretentious. His mind, his thoughts were free of any reservations or misconceptions, and his speech betrayed not the slightest desire to impress his addressee or be impressed by him. Fearlessly and boldly he called what was good, good, and bad, bad, though the standard by which he judged these was entirely his own and unconventional—a standard which was unshakeable, unlikely to change with the times. In short, it was then that I saw, for the first time in my life, what a true realist, a candid, fearless, great artist looked like. That image is still vivid in my mind and will remain with me forever.

  Our conversation was long but interesting. ‘You don’t drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A mullah, eh?’

  ‘No . . . just a Muslim.’

  He started laughing. His companion ordered a coffee for me.

  I learned that they had come to the coffee house just for my sake, abandoning a very lively meeting in some bar. ‘Actually, it is I who should have played the host,’ I apologized. ‘After all, I’m the local . . .’

  ‘No, not at all, you look like a muhajir,’* Manto remarked.

  ‘Even so, I live in Karachi.’

  He then asked, ‘Why did you ask me to sit down during the proceedings? No magistrate has ever treated me with such courtesy.’

  ‘I do not consider rudeness a part of court manners.’

  He immediately started laughing and said to his companion, ‘He seems like a decent enough fellow.’

  A while later he asked, ‘I haven’t read your judgement. What have you written in it?’

  I handed him a copy of my judgement. He read it carefully, and then he turned to his companion and said, as if I wasn’t there, ‘Seems like an educated man . . . very educated,’ and then, looking at me, ‘All right, tell me, how far have you studied?’

  I told him about my educational qualifications and certificates. He started laughing again. ‘Didn’t I say he was a very educated man? And he writes good English, such good English . . . Well then, why did you sentence me?’

  Precisely at that moment the realization hit me in all its intensity that this man was a true artist. Manto didn’t have the foggiest idea that he had written anything obscene; he had merely written a short story.

  He told me that the story in question was to a large extent based on real events. So if it was obscene, there was little he could do about it. Contemporary society was itself obscene. He merely portrayed what he saw; naturally the image bad people see in the mirror doesn’t please them. They become enraged. He hadn’t used a single obscene word in the story, which is absolutely true.

  I wasn’t ready at all to respond to him with his enthusiasm and clarity, so, to get him off my back, I merely said, ‘Obscene words are not the only touchstone of obscenity.’

  ‘Then what is—that one should hide the reality? You punish and fine me for speaking the truth.’

  Although, at the time, I didn’t think it provident to give him a clear and frank answer, I still believed that there has to be some difference between reality and its expression, which must be maintained. Otherwise, what would be the justification for covering one’s nakedness? Why does one look for privacy for the performance of the sexual act? Why are subtle allusion and suggestion considered literary qualities? A writer is not a photographer; he’s a painter. And even photographers don’t wander around snapping pictures of genitalia and scenes of cohabitation.

  I evaded him again, ‘I’ll tell you some other time why I’ve fined you.’

  ‘Promise?’ he asked.

  ‘I promise . . .’

  I was unable to fulfil my promise during Manto’s life. However, I’m doing so today:

  The Law doesn’t wish to get in the way of literature fulfilling its demands and purpose. It only wishes that such demands and purpose be beneficial for man. If the purpose is not salutary and lies only in arousing the libido, or even does not aim to do that but the subject and words are such that they drive weak, sick or immature minds to seek erotic pleasure, then the Law establishes that such writing is harmful and obscene. ‘Ūpar, Nīche, aur Darmiyān’ describes the preliminaries and the background of the sexual act, and how they differ in all three stra
ta of society. The Law doesn’t find such a subject useful, even though the events described may be based on reality. The Law also recognizes that ordinary people would use them to indulge in sexual arousal and pleasure, rather than observing in them the engaging portrayal of the differences obtaining in the three layers of society. This apprehension and determination of the Law isn’t all that misguided. It is possible, in fact it is certain, that writers will not agree with my assessment. I cannot elucidate the legal definition of obscenity with any more clarity than this, and neither can I provide a sounder justification for this definition.

  The fact is, even from a literary point of view, I considered this story obscene, but it was not pertinent to expound upon it at the time.

  Anyway, our meeting in the coffee house lasted a good hour and a half or maybe two. Just as Manto had extracted a promise from me, he also made a promise to me, which he too didn’t get the time to fulfil.

  So this was my first and last encounter with Manto. Afterwards, he wrote a couple of letters to me from Lahore. I did my best to do as he asked. But none of these favours were meant for him personally. He loved his friends and valued their friendship, and his letters sought help only for them. His last letter to me, dated 17 January 1955, was written only a day before he died. I received it after he was no more.

  But the dearest memento of our brief but entirely selfless relationship is something quite different. He had started writing the account of the trial regarding ‘Ūpar, Nīche, aur Darmiyān’ as ‘The Fifth Trial’ in Nuqūsh. Only its first instalment, which covers up to the events of his arrival at the court, has been published. God knows whether he was able to complete it. I’m sure he would have expressed his opinion of me in the next instalment. I read the first instalment and was eagerly waiting for the second, but the waiting prolonged.

  At the tail end of 1954 I came to know that Manto had published a fresh collection of his work called Ūpar, Nīche, aur Darmiyān. I felt both surprised and happy when people told me that Manto had dedicated it to me. Try as hard as one might, it is not possible to find a greater expression of Manto’s sincere affection and trust than this. I’m not a well-known person. I’m happy this will perhaps give my name a few moments of life as a literary curio.

  ‘Iṣmat-Farōshī (Prostitution)*

  Selling one’s virtue (‘iṣmat-farōshī)† is not something that goes against reason or infringes any law. It is a profession; women who engage in it meet certain societal needs. If something is available in the market and customers exist for it, this should not surprise us. And neither should we object to the means by which women earn a living, even if one of those means happens to be selling their bodies, for their customers are found in every city.

  Virtue-selling is considered a grave sin. Maybe it is a grave sin. But, I do not wish to pursue it from a religious point of view here. By plunging into the maze of sin and reward, crime and recompense one can hardly expect to reflect on this issue with a cool head. Religion is a formidable problem in itself. If I were to probe the issue from a religious perspective, I would get nowhere. So I will put religion aside and proceed.

  What, precisely, is virtue-selling? Well, it is to sell the jewel believed to be a woman’s most precious ornament. What further boosts its value is our experience of how a woman loses her respect in society once she has lost this jewel. This jewel is lost in many ways: after marriage, thanks to her husband; sometimes a man takes it from her forcibly; sometimes out of wedlock, when she surrenders it willingly to the man she loves; sometimes she sells it when circumstances compel her and sometimes she trades in it.

  Here, I want to talk about the last category: women who sell their bodies as a profession. Although it is evident that this priceless jewel can be lost or sold only once, not over and over again, nevertheless, inasmuch as prostitution is commonly designated as ‘virtue-selling’, we will also use this appellation.

  Throughout the ages a prostitute has been considered the most shameful of creatures. But have we ever given a thought to the fact that it is this same degraded individual whose doors we often knock at. Don’t we ever think that this makes us equally shameful?

  Regrettably, men never give it a moment’s thought. They will always attribute every last stain on their good names to the darkness that fills the heart of the prostitute. The reality, though, is the exact opposite. Prostitute or not, ninety-nine per cent of women without their virtue are likely to have, in spite of their ungodly trade, hearts that are much more radiant than those of dissolute men. Whether a prostitute or a lady with her virtue well preserved, women have always taken a back seat to men, because men control the present system and are free to think of women as they will.

  Have we not heard often of the rich profligate who, having burned his last penny himself in the crucible of his flaming passion, blames such-and-such slut or courtesan for his ruination? This is mind-boggling. I wish someone would unravel this mystery for me.

  A fille de joie, who runs her sex business strictly according to the rules of her profession, will, inevitably, attempt to extract the maximum possible cash from everyone who comes to her as a customer. Now, whether she sells her commodity at a reasonable rate or an exceptionally exorbitant price, why moan about it? It is her business after all. A provisions seller does the same . . . by adjusting the weight of the item you have come to buy. Some shops charge less, others considerably more.

  The confusing point is this: We hear all the time that prostitutes are veritable snakes; there is no remedy for their bite. Why then do we willingly allow ourselves to be bitten by them and fuss over it after? A prostitute does not pillage a man’s wealth consciously or out of some feeling of revenge. She strikes a deal and earns her living. Men pay her for their sexual gratification. That’s all.

  It is possible that a prostitute might sometimes love a man. But everyone who crosses her threshold with a specific purpose in mind begins to entertain the notion that she should also love him truly—how is that possible? We go to buy a rupee’s worth of flour—wouldn’t it be ridiculous if we expected the shopkeeper to invite us to his home and offer us a certain cure for baldness?

  A man who demands love from a prostitute merely forces her to fake a posture of true love. This will make her customer happy. But she cannot feel within the depths of her heart any stirrings of pure love for every man who gets drunk and starts swaying his head at her kotha full of the desire to induct her into a world of glamorous romance.

  One only looks at a prostitute from the outside. Her comportment, her airs, her gorgeous outfit, the decor, the furnishings of her parlour—all these create the impression of her being well situated and affluent. Nothing could be farther from the truth. It does not take exceptional intelligence to appreciate the true situation of a woman whose doors are open for anyone with cash in his pockets, cobbler or sweeper, lame or disabled, handsome or repulsive. An ugly man, blowing stinking puffs of breath from a mouth wasted by periodontitis comes to her place because he has enough money to buy the use of her body for a specific period of time. Even if she finds him utterly revolting, she can’t turn him away. So she holds back her revulsion and entertains him, putting up with his ugliness, his fetid breath. She is smart enough to know that not all of her clients will be the living image of Apollo.

  Nobody gawks at a female typist with consternation, or at midwives with hatred, or at sweeper women carrying baskets of refuse on their heads with belittlement. But, strangely, women who sell their bodies, whether in a delicate or crude manner, are looked upon with all three: consternation, hatred, and belittlement.

  Gentlemen, prostitution is indispensable. You see gorgeous, ritzy cars in the street—don’t you? Such classy vehicles aren’t meant to transport garbage. There are vehicles for that purpose, but you see them less often. And when you do see them, you quickly cover your nose. Well, just as we can’t do without garbage trucks, neither can we do without prostitutes. They are absolutely necessary; they carry away our dirt, our filth. Had
they not existed, our streets and pathways would have been filled with the most unseemly, the most vulgar acts of men.

  These women are like dreary, desolate gardens; open sewers running by garbage piles. They live in the middle of this filth. How can everyone live a lush and exuberant life?

  Just think about it: tucked away in a corner of the city is the room of a woman who sells her flesh; in the darkness of the evening, a man with a heart even darker than the night, barges in to assuage the leaping flames of his passion. She knows how evil this man is, that his very existence is a danger to humanity’s peace, over which it blazes like an ugly stain. She knows he is a frightening specimen of a creature from the age of barbarity, but she cannot slam the door shut in his face—can she? The door that one is compelled to open out of sheer economic necessity and want can’t simply be shut, not without the greatest difficulty.

  This woman—a bawd first, a woman second—gives her body over to a man in exchange for a few coins, but it is a body bereft of her soul in those moments. Listen to what one such bawd has to say:

  Men take me out into the fields. I just lie there, immobile, without a sound—dead, inert. Only my eyes are open, gazing far, far into the distance, where some she-goats are going at one another under the shade of the trees. Oh, what an idyllic scene! I start counting the she-goats, or the ravens on the branches—nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . . Meanwhile the man has finished, withdrawn, and is panting heavily some distance from me. But I’m not aware of any of this.

  Observation tells us that vaishiyas tend to be God-fearing. At every Hindu vaishiya’s place you will invariably find small idols or, at the very least, a picture of Lord Krishna or Lord Ganesha in one room or another. She worships it with the same reverence and purity of heart as any virtuous woman would. Likewise, if she happens to be Muslim, she will fast unfailingly during the month of Ramzan, close her business and wear black for the duration of Muharram, help the needy, and, on special occasions, bow to God in utmost humility and submission.