My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  On the face of it, such attachment by prostitutes to religion might seem fake. When, in fact, it portrays that there is a part of their soul which they have kept well protected from the corrosive effects of society.

  This holds equally true for prostitutes of other faiths. You will find them as devoted to their religion as any. A Christian vaishiya will not fail to attend mass in church or light an earthen lamp before the picture of the Virgin Mary. In this commerce of the flesh, a vaishiya trades her body, not her soul. It is not necessary for a seller of charas and bhang to be addicted to these substances himself. By the same token, not every pandit or maulvi is pious as a rule.

  The body can be stained, not the soul.

  What with her gloomy business, a prostitute can have a radiant soul. She can be merciless in collecting her earnings, but she can also help numberless poor. Her richest clients may not succeed in winning her love, but she wouldn’t think twice about giving it to a drifter who only has the sidewalks to sleep on at night.

  Yes, she craves money. But does that mean she cannot crave love?

  The answer to this question calls for a detailed discussion. There is a big difference between a hereditary prostitute and one who is new to the profession. Then there are also those women or girls who are driven to sell their flesh to support their poor parents or to take care of their fatherless children, but their case is entirely different from the two main types mentioned above.

  A hereditary prostitute is one who is born to a prostitute and grows up in her household, in other words, a woman who is instructed in the ways of prostitution according to the principles of her occupation. Women who grow up in such an environment generally consider love a coin that has no purchase in their trade. This makes sense; for if they were to give their hearts away to every client who visits them for a few hours, they wouldn’t be able to run their business successfully.

  Such women, as commonly observed, rarely feel the stirrings of love in their hearts. Said differently, in comparison to other women, they are very circumspect. Indeed, they can be quite stingy about falling in love. Their interaction with men generates indescribable feelings of bitterness in their hearts for them, whom they begin to consider worse than animals. That’s why they become, to a degree, ‘disbelievers’ in love. Which, of course, doesn’t mean that their hearts are entirely bereft of the delicate, tender feelings of love.

  Just as a sweeper’s daughter would probably not feel any revulsion towards carrying her first basket of filth on her head, similarly prostitutes would likely feel no hesitation or shame upon their debut in the profession. Bashfulness, hesitation and their complementary sentiments gradually wear off to the point of non-existence. How can tender feelings of love find their way into the hearts of prostitutes whose doors are open for lustful men?

  Just as decent, virtuous women gaze at vaishiyas with bafflement and shocked disbelief, so do the latter gaze at the former. While the eyes of virtuous women are filled with the question, ‘Could a woman sink so low?’ the virtue-less woman wonders, ‘What are these chaste women? Who are they?’

  A vaishiya whose mother, whose grandmother, and so on were all vaishiyas, who has suckled at a vaishiya’s breasts after being born in the midst of the oldest profession in the world, who grew up in its milieu and started selling her flesh there—how can she ever understand virtue or virtuous women?

  Out of every one hundred girls born into prostitutes’ families, perhaps only one or two ever feel revulsion at their environment and firmly commit to surrendering themselves to only one man. The rest follow the path of their mothers.

  A shopkeeper’s son desires to open his own shop and expresses this desire in a variety of ways. It is no different with the teenage daughters of prostitutes. They also long to set up their own business, which is what leads them to display the attributes of their bodies, their charms, their beauty in ever-newer, eye-catching ways. And when they launch into the business, their debut follows the enactment of specific initiation ceremonies. This is no different from the protocol for beginning any new business.

  This being the case, obviously, it is hard for love to sprout in the hearts of these hereditary prostitutes. By love, I mean the kind that our society has been witness to over the ages—the proverbial love of Heer and Ranjha, Sassi and Punnu.

  But these seasoned, hardened prostitutes also love, though in a radically different way. They can’t replicate the love of Laila and Majnun or Heer and Ranjha for the all-too-obvious adverse effect it would have on their business. If a vaishiya were to set apart a few moments during her work hours for a man from whom she doesn’t care to receive money, well, we would say that she has feelings for this fellow. But as a rule, she is greedy only for a man’s wealth. She would be breaking a rule if she cared for him and not his money, and would also be making it obvious that her heart is at work behind this care, not any desire to cash in on his riches. And where the heart is involved, feelings of love must inevitably find their way.

  Ordinarily, love springs from the unalloyed desire for sexual gratification. So, here too, we will consider sex the operative agent of what is called love. But many other considerations can also set love in motion. For instance, a woman who sells sex for money and is used to lording it over men might also tire of being endlessly wheedled and indulged in her whims by her clients. Yes, she likes to be the boss, but there may be times when she would like nothing better than being subservient herself. Surely, fulfilment of every request is hugely profitable, but rejection, too, has a flavour all its own. Raking in piles of money as a routine inevitably makes her want, sometimes, to spend it on someone else. If everyone plays up to her, she too might want to flatter someone. If she is adamant with someone, someone must also be adamant with her. She always spurns and snubs others; someone should snub her, tease her, treat her badly. All these latent desires compel her to choose a particular man for herself. And so she chooses.

  Selection is an exceedingly delicate, indeed, unpredictable matter. It is entirely conceivable that she might open the doors of her heart to the scion of some rich man, or end up throwing herself at the feet of the filthy, charas-addicted miraasi who fills the hookah-bowls at her kotha—she, for a kiss of whose curls distinguished kings and princes would shower thousands of gold pieces without thinking twice. Nor should we feel surprise when that filthy man kicks her away with contempt. One often observes and hears about such incidents.

  A famous tawaif, whom a nawab sahib was madly in love with, had given her heart to a very ordinary man. She would ridicule the nawab’s love, while people derided her for hers. The nawab earned disgrace for loving a tawaif, and she lost esteem in the eyes of the people for loving a nobody.

  A vaishiya’s love, compared to that of ordinary women, is more intense. Her association with men introduces her to unfamiliar emotions of loving, and when she herself falls in love, those emotions affect her with greater force.

  Stories abound in bazaars where prostitutes conduct their business, especially stories about the pleasure-loving rich whose bags of money open up at prostitutes’ kothas. And there are those who love to tell those stories with great gusto. Sarangi-players, drummers and others who regularly come and go at kothas will tell you many such spicy tales.

  Among those stories, we can cite by way of example the one about a particular prostitute who literally bathed in money, but had lost her heart to a labourer in tatters and who trampled it mercilessly under his calloused feet every day. She collected piles of money from her admirers every night, but remained miles away from the grimy embrace of the labourer. She hopelessly tried to find her way into his heart, and failed. Far too often she, with a body as delicate as a flower, slept on the bare cobblestone sidewalk to win the affection of her labourer!

  Such paradox, the colour of true love, does appear quite outlandish and mysteriously romantic in the milieu of brothels. But it is the backdrop that accentuates and highlights the objects that occupy the foreground. Since we normally think that a
ll a prostitute ever cares about is money, that she is altogether bereft of feelings of love, a story such as the one just told always seems incredible and bizarre; hence, our heightened interest in listening to it—rather than the love affairs of ordinary men and women—as if it was an account of something highly improbable, although, in point of fact, the heart and its stirrings have nothing to do with the selling of one’s virtue or keeping it unstained. A virtuous woman can have a heart that does not throb for love; conversely, the meanest bawd of a brothel can possess a heart fully responsive to such promptings.

  One should never forget that not every woman is a vaishiya, but that every vaishiya is a woman.

  There’s something special about a vaishiya’s love that is worth mentioning. It is that her love never gets in the way of her business. One rarely finds a vaishiya who permanently folded up her business for the sake of her love (any more than a respectable shopkeeper closes down his business because of his love for an honourable girl). Normally, a vaishiya will continue her business even though she loves someone. One could say that a businessman’s appetite for money becomes part of her psyche. Making new customers and selling her flesh turns into something like a habit, which eventually becomes her nature, with absolutely no effect on other areas of her life. Just as a servant, after speedily making his master’s bed, turns to his own comfort, in like manner, these women return to their own happiness and comfort just as soon as they have entertained the last customer of the evening.

  The heart is not something one can portion off, and women tend to be comparatively less promiscuous than men. Inasmuch as a vaishiya is a woman, she can’t give her heart to all of her clients. A woman loves only one man in her life, or so the saying goes. I tend to think that this is largely true. She will open her heart only to the man for whom she feels love; she can’t give it to everyone who crosses her threshold.

  How often is the complaint not heard that prostitutes are generally very cruel and tyrannical. Perhaps the thinnest sliver in a population of hundreds can be characterized this way, but not all; they cannot be. One must never compare a prostitute to a woman who preserves her modesty. Indeed such a comparison is grossly misleading. A vaishiya works for her living; the modest woman has many to provide for her needs.

  The words of a vaishiya, which reflect the depths of her feelings, are still echoing in my ears. Listen:

  A vaishiya is a helpless woman with no one to watch over her. A whole host of men visit her every evening—for only one purpose. She feels alone even in the company of her lovers—all alone. She is a train that travels in the darkness of night, drops off her passengers at their destinations, and then stands empty under the metal roof of a shed—all alone, abandoned, forlorn, covered with dust and smoke. People call us bad. Heaven only knows why. The very clients who buy us for their comfort in the darkness of night, disparage, belittle and hate us in the light of day. We sell our bodies openly; we don’t hide it as a secret. Men come to us to buy sex, and then keep this transaction a secret . . . one wonders why.

  Think of the prostitute who has no one in the world to call her own—no brother, no sister, no parents, not even a friend. When the last customer of the evening has gone away, she is left all alone in her room. Try to imagine the state of her mind and heart then—a void made a hundredfold more frightening than the darkness of her night.

  Imagine the condition of a porter who has no means to relax after a day’s gruelling work, neither a wife to talk with to amuse himself, nor a mother who will put an affectionate hand gently on his shoulder and take away all his misery, soak up all his fatigue. Have you any idea what such a man must feel like? Materially, a vaishiya’s situation is not much different from his. But why, then, does she look so full of vivacity and exuberance?

  For the answer we must dig deep into our hearts. The fault lies in the way we look at a prostitute; hence, we must commune with our inner self in order to discover the reasons for our short-sightedness. What I have been able to work out, after much hard thinking, is this:

  The minute the word vaishiya is uttered, the image of a woman sails before our eyes—a woman who can gratify a man’s desire for sex in whatever manner and whenever he feels the need for it. But we forget that a prostitute and a woman are two different entities, so when we think about the former, what we inevitably see is a woman and her profession rolled into one. Now it’s true that one’s profession and milieu do considerably affect a person, but there are times when this person is simply a human being, apart from whatever else she may be. Likewise, there can be times when a vaishiya sheds the accoutrements of her calling and becomes just a woman. But alas, we are used to only looking at her and her profession as one and the same thing. Thus we see her as a woman and as one who gives pleasure, the pleasure being ordinarily pure sexual gratification.

  What is sexual pleasure?

  It is that ephemeral physical experience, lasting barely a few moments, which comes from joining together with one’s wife or with any other woman. Why, then, does a married man leave his wife and go to a prostitute to get it? Why does he knock about everywhere outside when this desire can be satisfied just as easily inside his home?

  The answer is fairly simple. You must have seen numberless people who dine in restaurants when they can eat more sumptuous and savoury dishes at home. This is because they become addicted to restaurant food. Surely it is less nourishing, but it has something which attracts them immensely. We might call this something ‘the peculiar ambience of the restaurant’—admittedly a vice which becomes a virtue, in other words, an attraction—a fabricated attraction in which the restaurateur plays no small part.

  Additionally, the exuberance, the gaiety of the restaurant is not something he can replicate at home. By nature man likes variety. His desire for a change in his daily routine need not surprise us. Surely the restaurant diet is not as good and healthy as home-made food, and far more expensive. But this is what these people love, what draws them to a restaurant. Call it folly or stupidity if you will, but they like it.

  The case of married men who seek pleasure in the embrace of a prostitute is no different. Do they succeed in finding it?—you might ask. Certainly, I would say. The women they visit are adept at providing maximum gratification. After all, this is what they sell; it is their profession—to give a pleasure all its own, utterly different from what a housewife can provide. How else will their business flourish?

  Let me reiterate what I said at the beginning of this piece: prostitution is not at all irrational.

  The Short Story Writer and Matters of Sex*

  Regardless of how insignificant a thing may be, it never fails to create problems. A mosquito finds its way inside a mosquito net and stirs up a whole host of difficulties: how to expel the offender, what proper safeguards might prevent this culprit and other offenders of its ilk from entering the netting ever again. However, the biggest problem, the grandfather of problems, came about in the world when Adam felt the pangs of hunger. A somewhat less pressing, nonetheless interesting, problem surfaced when the first man on earth encountered the first woman on earth.

  Both problems, as you well know, stem from two basic kinds of hunger. They are intimately connected—precisely why we see them at work in the back of all of our contemporary problems, be they societal, social, political or military.

  But hunger, never mind what kind it is, is an extremely dangerous thing. If only chains are offered to those who hanker after freedom, revolution will inevitably occur. If the starving are forced to fast day after day, desperation will drive them to snatch food from the mouths of others. If man is denied the sight of the female body, he will perhaps look for its image among his own sex and animals.

  Hunger is the font of every conceivable ill. It sends you out to beg, entices you to commit crimes, to sell your body and it teaches extremism. Its assault is unforgiving, its blow unfailing, its wound very deep. Hunger breeds madmen; madness doesn’t create hunger.

  No matter where a write
r is situated on Earth, whether he is progressive or conservative, young or old, all he sees is a plethora of problems afflicting the world. He picks from them and writes about them—once in favour of a problem, once against some other.

  Today’s writer is not much different from his counterpart from five hundred years ago. It is Time, not man, that tags everything as new or old. Today we are called ‘new’ writers. Tomorrow we will be labelled ‘old’ and put away in some cupboard. This doesn’t mean we lived for nothing, that our lives were a waste, that we toiled in vain. When a clock’s hand crawls to two, it doesn’t render the previous digit useless, because the hand goes through its cycle and comes back to one. This is the law that governs a clock, just as it governs the world.

  Today’s problems are not fundamentally different from those of yesterday. The seeds for all the ills that plague us today were sown yesterday. Likewise, sexual problems that confront us now also challenged earlier writers. They wrote about them in their own way, as do we.

  I don’t know why I’m questioned so often about the sex in my stories. Could it be because some people consider me a progressive, or because I’ve written some stories on sexual themes? Or perhaps because by calling some new writers ‘sex-crazy’ some people want to banish them from literature, religion and society in a single blow? Whatever the reason, here is how I look at things:

  Bread and stomach, man and woman—these are correlations that go back to the beginning of time. Eternal. Which of the two is more important—bread or stomach, woman or man—I can’t say with any certainty. Why? Because my stomach demands bread, but does wheat also crave my stomach equally? This I absolutely do not know.

  Occasionally, the thought drifts through my mind that if the earth has produced wheat it can’t be without a purpose—which suggests to me that all those golden stalks of wheat swaying in the vast, open fields are meant just for my stomach. Immediately, on the heels of that thought, comes another: Perhaps my stomach came first, the ears of wheat some time later.