Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Why did she want someone to praise her, she wondered. She hadn’t ever needed to hear this so desperately before — so desperately indeed that today she had even looked at inanimate objects with such solicitous intensity as though hoping to extract from them a confirmation of her goodness. Why was every atom of her being pining to become a ‘mother’? Why was she preparing herself to gather everything on earth into her lap like a mother? And why did she want to wrap herself around the lamp post up ahead, to rest her warm cheek on its frosty surface and take away its chill?

For a moment she felt as though the dim light of the gas lamp, the metal lamp post, the square cobblestones of the sidewalk, in fact everything around her in the still night, was looking at her compassionately. The sky overhead, now a dark grey sheet with numerous holes, seemed to understand her, just as she seemed to understand the meaning of the blinking stars. But why this tension that was churning her inside? Why did she feel like the weather just before the rains? She wanted every pore of her body to burst open and let out whatever was boiling inside. But how could that happen? How?

She was now standing by the red letter box at the end of the street. A strong gust of wind shook the metal flap hanging like a tongue in an open mouth. The ensuing rattle made her look automatically in the direction the car had sped away, but she couldn’t see anything there. How desperately she yearned for the car to approach her once again and. . and. .

‘To hell with it! What do I care! No point making my life miserable! Let’s go home and take a long, restful nap. Nothing will be gained by engaging in this kind of thinking. Get moving, Saugandhi, go home and have a mug of cold water, rub on a dab of balm, and doze off. You’ll have a good sleep, absolutely first rate. Everything will be all right. To hell with the seth and his car. .’

Suddenly she felt light. It was as if she had just emerged from a dip in the refreshingly cool waters of a pond. It was the same lightness she always felt after puja. It caused her steps to falter a few times as she started walking home.

As she was nearing her place, the entire episode shot through her heart like an obdurate pain and spread over her whole being. Her steps began to feel heavy once again and the memory of how a man had sent for her, slapped her with the beam of his torch, and insulted her in the middle of the bazaar a short time ago came back to haunt her and made her feel absolutely miserable. The very thought made her feel as if someone was poking at her ribs with his hard fingers, as though she were a sheep or a goat and he wanted to check whether the animal had any flesh at all. ‘That seth, may God. .’ Saugandhi thought of cursing him, but stopped short. What would be the point? She would have enjoyed it far more if he had been standing in front of her and she could curse every single part of his being, from top to bottom, using such foul, abrasive language that he would be writhing in agony for the rest of his life. She would have torn her clothes and stood in front of him stark naked, saying, ‘This is what you came for, didn’t you? Here, take it! Take it for free! But whatever I am, whatever lies hidden inside me, you can’t buy it, no one can buy it — not you, not your father, not anyone — not for all the money in the world!’

Ever-changing methods of exacting revenge were insinuating themselves into Saugandhi’s mind. If only she could come face to face with that seth again. . she would do this to him. . no, not this, but that. . avenge herself like this. . no, like that. But realizing such an encounter was next to impossible, she contented herself with a single invective, a small one, which she wished would stick to the lout’s nose like a pesky fly, never to leave it for as long as he lived.

Absorbed in this back and forth with her inner self, she had climbed up to her second-floor kholi. She took out the key from her bra and reached to unlock the door. The key turned in the empty air. There was no padlock on the door. She gave the door panels a gentle push and heard them creak softly. Someone unlatched the door from the inside. The panels yawned open and she stepped in.

Madho laughed through his moustache. Closing the door after Saugandhi he said, ‘Good, you finally took my advice. An early morning walk is good for your health. If you keep it up, you’ll be cured of your sluggishness. And the back pains that you keep complaining about all the time, they’ll disappear too. Guess you must have walked up to the Victoria Gardens, right?’

Saugandhi didn’t answer, nor did Madho show any desire to press on. When he talked, it never required her participation. They talked only because they thought they had to.

Madho plunked down into the wickerwork chair; its backrest had a big grimy stain left by his heavily oiled hair. He crossed his legs and started stroking his moustache.

Saugandhi took a seat on the bed and said, ‘I was expecting you today.’

Madho lost his bearing. ‘Expecting me?’ he said. ‘How in the world did you know I was coming today?’

Her tightly pressed lips parted a little and a wan smile appeared. ‘I dreamt about you tonight. When I woke up, you weren’t there. So I told myself, “Let’s go somewhere for a stroll.” And. .’

‘And I showed up,’ said Madho, beside himself with delight. ‘So, after all, the sages have said it: Caring hearts reach out for each other. When did you have this dream?’

‘At about four,’ she replied.

Madho got out of the chair, walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. ‘And you know what? I saw you in my dream at around two, in a floral sari, exactly like the one you have on, standing before me, holding, yes, a bag full of money. You put the bag in my lap and said, “Madho, why do you worry? Here, take it. After all my money is your money.” Would you believe it, Saugandhi, I swear by your life, I got up right away, bought my ticket and headed your way. Oh, what can I tell you? I’m in a terrible mess. Somebody has lodged a court case against me for no reason at all. If only I had twenty rupees to bribe the inspector with, I could perhaps buy my way out. You aren’t tired, are you? Come, lie down, I’ll massage your feet. Surely a person feels tired when they’re not used to taking walks. Here, extend your feet towards me.’

Saugandhi lay down, supporting her head on her folded forearms like a pillow and, in a tone that wasn’t her own, said, ‘Madho, who is this rogue suing you? They won’t put you in prison, will they? Just tell me if that might happen. . What are twenty or thirty rupees? Fifty, even a hundred to warm the hands of the police in such a predicament is worth it. One can make millions as long as one’s life is saved! Enough! You can stop now. I’m really not that tired. Stop massaging and tell me everything. My heart has been thumping violently ever since I heard the word “case”. When do you have to go back?’

Madho smelled liquor on Saugandhi’s breath. He thought the time was right and blurted out, ‘By the afternoon train. . I’ll have to. If by evening I don’t unload fifty or hundred on the sub-inspector of police. . No need to give him more, I think fifty will be plenty to do the job.’

‘Fifty it is!’ Saugandhi said calmly, rising slowly from the bed and proceeding quietly towards the wall with the four photographs. The third from the left was Madho’s. He was sitting on a chair in front of a curtain with a large floral print. His arms were stretched out along his thighs and he was holding a rosebud in one hand. Two fat books sat on a tea table nearby. He was so overwhelmed by the thought of being photographed that everything about him was spilling out and screaming: ‘I’m having my picture taken! I’m having my picture taken!’ In the photo he was glaring at the camera so intently it seemed as if he was in the throes of some incredible ordeal at the time.