Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Neelam had grown more sedate than before, and Raj Kishore’s shirt remained open all the time, the dark black hair on his muscled white chest poking out.

Since it hadn’t rained for a couple of days and the paint on the fourth set of Ban ki Sundri had dried, director Kirpalani put up a notice saying that shooting would start shortly. The scene to be shot was between Neelam and Raj Kishore. I had written the dialogues, so I knew he would kiss her hand during their conversation. There was no compelling reason for a kiss in the scene, but as per the formula, it had been thrown in merely to excite the public, just as women were made to appear on screen in clothing that titillated the senses.

I was present when filming started. My heart was throbbing. I was wondering how the two would react. The very thought of it sent a tingling sensation through my body. The scene ended and nothing happened. Electric lamps came on and went off after every dialogue with tiring monotony, and the calls of ‘Start’ and ‘Cut’ rose and subsided. Around dusk, at the climax of the scene, Raj Kishore grabbed Neelam’s hand romantically, but turned his back to the camera and kissed his own hand instead before releasing hers.

I was expecting her to pull her hand away and smack his face so loudly that it would burst the eardrums of P.N. Mogha in the sound studio. But on the contrary, I found a melting smile on her thin lips, entirely bereft of even the slightest trace of wounded feelings.

I was terribly disappointed, but I didn’t mention it to Neelam. When a couple of days had passed and she too hadn’t said anything about it, I imagined that she probably hadn’t realized the significance of that kiss; rather I should say, the thought of it hadn’t even crossed her sensitive mind. The only reason could be that in those moments she was listening to words of love pouring out of the mouth of someone who was otherwise used to calling women his sisters.

But why had he kissed his own hand? Was he getting even with her? Was he trying to humiliate her? A spate of such questions crowded my mind without yielding a satisfactory answer.

On the fourth day, when I went, as usual, to Shamlal’s, he complained, ‘Manto Sahib, you never tell us anything about your company. Is it because you don’t want to or because you don’t know anything? Do you know what Raj Bhai did?’

Then he began telling the story in his own style: ‘There was this scene in Ban ki Sundri in which Director Sahib ordered Raj Bhai to kiss Miss Neelam on the lips. But Sahib, Raj Bhai is one thing, and that saali, that whore, is quite another entirely. No comparison. Raj Bhai blurted out right away, “No, Sahib, not a chance. I won’t ever do such a thing. I have my own wife. How will I ever touch her chaste lips after kissing this foul woman?” Well, sir, Director Sahib had to change the scene right away and Raj Bhai was told, all right, don’t kiss her lips, just kiss her hand. But Raj Bhai is no greenhorn whom you can take for a ride. No sir! When the time came, he kissed his own hand instead so deftly that everyone thought he had kissed that saali’s.’

I didn’t mention this to Neelam. She was totally unaware of the whole thing, so why make her unhappy.

Malaria is rampant in Bombay. I remember neither the month nor the date, except that it was raining hard when they were putting up the fifth set of Ban ki Sundri . Neelam suddenly came down with a high fever. Since there was no work for me at the studio, I would sit by her side for hours and look after her. Malaria had added a strangely melancholic pallor to the brownish hue of her face. A glimpse of some obscure vulnerability could be seen in the indescribable bitterness that never left her eyes and the corners of her thin lips.

The quinine shots affected her hearing so much that she had to raise her voice when she spoke, perhaps thinking that I too was hard of hearing.

One day, after her fever broke and she was lying in bed thanking Eidan Bai in a feeble voice for inquiring after her, a car honked in the street below. I noticed that the noise sent a shiver through Neelam’s body.

Minutes later the room’s heavy teakwood door opened and Raj Kishore appeared in his white khadi shirt and tight pyjamas, with his old-fashioned wife in tow. He greeted Eidan Bai by addressing her as ‘Sister Eidan’, shook hands with me and, after introducing his wife — very much an ordinary-looking housewife but with prominent features — sat down on Neelam’s bed. For a few moments he stared vacantly into space, smiling, and then looked at Neelam. For the first time I spotted the traces of some obscure feeling in his limpid eyes. I hadn’t yet been fully surprised when he started out in his playful manner. ‘I have been meaning to come and inquire after you for some time, but this blasted car, the engine gave out on me. The garage took ten days to fix it. I just got it back today. I immediately said to Shanti (he pointed at his wife), “Get up, right now, let’s go. . someone else will take care of the kitchen work. Luckily, today is also the festival of Raksha Bandhan. We’ll both inquire after sister Neelam and have her tie the rakhi on my wrist.”’ He promptly took a silken gajra out of the pocket of his khadi shirt. The pallor on Neelam’s face became slightly more pronounced.

Raj Kishore was purposely avoiding Neelam’s eyes. ‘But no,’ he said to Eidan Bai instead, ‘not like this. It’s a joyous festival. Sister Neelam shouldn’t tie the rakhi when she’s feeling indisposed. . Shanti, get up and put some lipstick on her.’

‘Where’s the make-up box?’

It was lying on the mantelpiece. Raj Kishore took a few giant strides and brought it over. Neelam remained silent. . her thin lips tightened, as if she was finding it hard to hold back from screaming.

Neelam didn’t resist when Shanti, like a dutiful wife, tried to put some make-up on her. Eidan Bai propped her up, supporting her listless body like a corpse. Shanti began applying a coat of lipstick rather awkwardly. Neelam looked at me and smiled. And in that smile I could feel the resonance of a stifled scream.

I thought. . no, I was positive that something was about to happen. . Neelam’s tightly pressed lips would explode and, like mountain streams that break through the most formidable dykes under the onslaught of punishing rains, she would release a torrential deluge of dammed emotions that would topple us and carry us to God knows what unknown depths in their fury. Strangely, she remained silent, absolutely silent, only the melancholy pallor of her face tried to hide behind the vaporous redness of powder. She remained as inert as a graven image. Her make-up done, she said to Raj Kishore in a strangely firm manner, ‘Please give me the rakhi, I will tie it on your wrist now.’

Within seconds the tasselled silken rakhi was on his wrist and Neelam, whose hands should have trembled, was knotting the cord with steely calm. During all this, I once again caught a glimpse of some obscure emotion floating in Raj Kishore’s limpid eyes before it quickly dissolved in a laugh.

According to custom, he gave Neelam a gift of money in an envelope. She thanked him and tucked the envelope under her pillow.

After they left and Neelam and I were alone, she cast a desolate glance at me and lay down quietly, resting her head on the pillow. Raj Kishore had forgotten to take his bag; it was still on the bed. When she saw it, she pushed it aside with her foot. I sat by her side browsing through the newspaper for nearly two hours. When she didn’t say anything, I left without asking her permission.

Three days later, as I was shaving inside my nine-rupees-a-month kholi in Nagpara, and listening to the vituperations of Mrs Fernandez who lived next door, someone barged in. I turned around to look. It was Neelam.