Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I asked.

‘They had a fight. Razia is carrying on with someone else.’

‘But settling accounts with Razia. . what accounts?’

‘Yaar, this Saeed, he’s terribly mean. He’s asking her to return all the clothes he ever bought for her.’

‘Look, a friend of mine from Peshawar has sent a woman here. She’s eager to work in films.’

Janki was standing close by. I realized I hadn’t explained myself properly, and was about to correct myself when Narain’s loud voice crashed against my ears. ‘Woman, wow! From Peshawar? Wow again! Khu , send her, send her double quick. I too am a Pathan. . a Pathan from Qusur.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense. Listen, I’m sending her to Bombay tomorrow, aboard the Deccan Queen. You or Saeed should pick her up at the station. Deccan Queen, remember.’

‘But how will we recognize her?’ I heard him ask.

‘She’ll recognize you. But do try to find work for her.’

‘You’re going to Bombay tomorrow on the Deccan Queen,’ I told Janki. ‘I’ll show you Saeed’s and Narain’s photos. Both of them are tall, stout and handsome. You’ll have no problem spotting them.’

I took out the album and showed her their pictures. She looked at both for a long time, though I noticed she looked at Saeed’s more closely. She put the album aside and, making a faltering attempt to look straight into my eyes, asked, ‘What kind of men are they?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what kind of men are they?. . Most men in films tend to be quite nasty, I’ve heard.’

I detected a trace of probing in her grave tone.

‘That, of course, is true. Why would anyone want good men working in films?’

‘Why not?’

‘There are two types of people in this world: those who grasp the extent of their pain from their own suffering, and those who grasp it by looking at the suffering of others. Tell me, which of the two do you think truly feels the real pain of suffering and its agony?’

After some reflection she answered, ‘Why, those who have suffered themselves.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Those who’ve been through real suffering can portray it best in films. Only a man who has floundered in love knows what heartbreak is. A woman who spreads out the rug and prays five times a day, who thinks love is as unlawful as eating the flesh of a pig, how can she profess love to a man in front of a camera?’

She reflected again for a bit. ‘So you mean a woman should know about everything before entering films?’

‘Not necessarily. She can also learn after she’s begun.’

Janki paid no heed to all this and repeated her earlier question, ‘So what kind of men are Saeed Sahib and Narain Sahib?’

‘You want me to describe them in detail?’

‘What do you mean by “in detail”?’

‘Basically just which one will be better for you.’

She didn’t like what I said.

‘What kind of talk is that?’

‘The kind you wanted.’

‘Drop it.’ She smiled. ‘I won’t ask you about anything any more.’

‘But if you were to, I would recommend Narain.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a much better person than Saeed.’

I think so even now. Saeed is a poet, a terribly heartless poet. He won’t slaughter a chicken with a knife; he’ll wring its neck, pluck its feathers and then make broth out of it. He’ll drink the broth, chew on the bones, then sit in a corner comfortably and write a poem about the chicken’s demise, with tears in his eyes.

When he drinks, he never really gets drunk. This is something that annoys me a lot. It kills the very purpose of drinking. In the morning, he takes all the time in the world to wake up. The servant serves him tea in bed. If Saeed finds some rum on the bedside table left over from the previous night, he’ll dump it into his tea and drink the mixture one mouthful at a time, as if he has absolutely no sense of taste.

If a sore appears on his body and begins to fester, he pays no attention to it, none at all, not even if puss starts to ooze out and the sore threatens to morph into a dangerous abscess. He won’t deign to visit the doctor. If you try to say something, his only answer will be, ‘Maladies often become a permanent part of the body. When this wound doesn’t trouble me, why bother treating it?’ Meanwhile, he’ll look at the wound as if he’s chanced upon a beautiful line of poetry.

He’ll never understand film acting because he’s nearly bereft of all delicate feelings. I saw him once in a film that became quite popular because of the songs sung by the heroine. At one point in the story he was scripted to hold her hand and profess his love to her. I swear, he grabbed her hand as if he was grabbing a dog’s foot. How often have I told him, ‘Put the thought of acting out of your mind. You’re a darn good poet. Stay home and write poems.’ But will he listen? He’s obsessed with being an actor no matter what.

Narain now, I like him a lot. I also find the rules he’s devised for working in a studio quite appealing.

One should never marry during his acting career. If he must marry, he should give up acting right away and open a dairy shop instead. If he’s been a good actor, he’ll make good money.

The minute an actress addresses you as ‘bhai’ or ‘bhaiya’, immediately whisper in her ear, ‘What size is your bra?’

If you’ve gone gaga over an actress, don’t waste your time pussyfooting around. Meet her in private and tell her flat out, ‘I too have a tongue in my mouth.’ If she doesn’t believe it, stick out your whole tongue at her.

Should you be so lucky as to bag an actress, don’t ever take even a penny from her earnings, even though that is kosher for her husband and brothers.

Make absolutely sure no child of yours is born to her, but she’s free to bear your child after swaraj.

Remember, even an actor has to face Judgement Day. So don’t even try to pretty up your record with a comb and razor; instead, use some crude method for it, such as doing a good deed every now and then.

Pay the greatest regard to the Pathan watchman at the studio. Greet him first thing in the morning when you come in. You’ll reap a reward if you do, in the next world if not in this, for there aren’t going to be any film companies in that other world.

Never become addicted to liquor and actresses. Who knows, the Congress may put a ban on both of them one day!

A Muslim or a Hindu can be a businessman, but an actor cannot be a Hindu actor or a Muslim actor.

Don’t lie.

He has inscribed all of these under ‘Narain’s Ten Commandments’ in his diary. They give a good idea of what kind of man he is. People say he doesn’t abide by them himself, but that’s not true.

Although Janki hadn’t asked, I shared with her my thoughts about the two men. I told her plainly that if she made it into the film world, she would need the support of one man or the other. And Narain, in my view, would prove to be a good friend.

She heard me out and left for Bombay. When she returned the next day she was overjoyed. Apparently, Narain had signed her up with his studio for a whole year at a monthly salary of five hundred rupees. We talked for quite a while about how she got the job. After listening to her, I asked, ‘You met both Saeed and Narain, right? Who liked you more?’

The hint of a smile appeared on her lips. Again with her hesitant eyes she looked at me and said, ‘Saeed Sahib,’ and then suddenly she became serious. ‘Saadat Sahib, why did you praise Narain to high heaven?’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘He’s so awful! In the evening when they both sat down to drink, I happened to address Narain as ‘bhaiya’ and he quickly bent over and whispered into my ear, “What size is your bra?” Bhagwan knows this burned me up, from my head right down to my very toes. What kind of lewd man is he?’