Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

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 strata 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.

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.