Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

She would peer for hours at the criss-crossing tracks and the engines standing or gliding along them, her mind ceaselessly assaulted by all kinds of thoughts. In Ambala Cantonment, too, her house had been close to the railway station, but she had never looked at these things in such a way there. It was different now. This network of tracks, the steam and smoke rising from them here and there — all this seemed to her like an immense brothel; a profusion of trains being pulled this way or that by big, fat engines. Sometimes the engines looked like those seths who’d visited her in Ambala from time to time. And sometimes when she saw a solitary engine passing slowly by a row of carriages, her mind conjured up the image of a man looking up at the balconies as he passed through the prostitutes’ quarters.

Sultana was sure that such thoughts would drive her mad some day, so when they started to assault her mind regularly she stopped going to the balcony.

She pleaded with Khuda Bakhsh repeatedly, ‘For God’s sake have some pity on me. Stay at home. I languish here all day like a sick person.’ But each time Khuda Bakhsh calmed her down, saying, ‘My love, I go out to earn something. God willing, our hard days will soon come to an end.’

A full five months passed but neither Sultana’s nor Khuda Bakhsh’s hard days came to an end. The month of Muharram was fast approaching. Sultana had no money to buy herself the customary black outfit. Mukhtar had a snazzy Lady Hamilton shirt with black georgette sleeves made for herself and, to go with it, she already had a black satin shalwar which glistened like kajal. Anwari had bought a fine georgette sari. She’d told Sultana that she would wear it over a white bosky petticoat because this was all the rage. She had also bought dainty sandals of black velvet to match her sari. When Sultana saw all this finery the thought that she had no means to buy such clothes to celebrate Muharram deeply saddened her.

She returned home feeling despondent. It was as though a tumour had sprouted inside her. The house was empty. Khuda Bakhsh was out as usual. She stretched out on the dhurrie and put a bolster under her head. She lay there for quite a while, until her neck began to feel stiff because of the height of the bolster. She got up and went out on to the balcony to expel her agonizing thoughts.

She saw several carriages standing on the tracks but not a single engine. It was evening. The street had been hosed down to keep the dust from rising. Men who furtively glanced at the balconies and then quietly headed home had begun to appear in the bazaar. One of them looked up at Sultana. She smiled at him but quickly forgot about him because an engine had suddenly materialized on the tracks across from her. She looked at it intently and the idea that the engine too was wearing black slowly formed in her mind. To rid herself of this strange thought she turned her gaze to the street and saw the same man who had stared at her lustily standing by an oxcart. She beckoned to him. He looked around him and then, with a subtle gesture, asked her the way to her flat. She let him know. The man waited a little as if thinking and then briskly came up the stairs.

Sultana seated him on the dhurrie. To start the conversation she asked, ‘Why were you afraid to come up?’

‘What makes you think I was afraid?’ he said, smiling. ‘What was there to be afraid of?’

‘Because you hesitated, took some time to think before coming up.’

The man smiled again and said, ‘You’re mistaken. Actually, I was looking at the flat above yours. A woman there was sticking her tongue out at a man. I found it amusing. When the balcony lit up with a green light, I stayed on a bit longer. I like green light. It’s very soothing to the eyes.’ He let his gaze wander all over the room and then got up.

‘You’re leaving?’ Sultana asked.

‘No. I want to look at your house. Come on, show me all the rooms.’

One by one she showed him the three rooms. He checked them out without saying a word. When they returned to the room where they had been sitting earlier, he said, ‘My name is Shankar.’

For the first time she looked at the man closely. He was of medium height and had rather ordinary features, except for unusually bright, clear eyes that occasionally gleamed with a strange brilliance. His body was firm and compact, and his hair was greying around the temples. He had on grey woollen pants and a white shirt with an upturned collar.

Shankar sat on the dhurrie as though Sultana, not he, was the client. This annoyed her a bit, so she asked, ‘Yes. . what can I do for you?’

Now he lay down and said, ‘What can you do for me? Rather, what can I do for you? After all you’re the one who summoned me.’

When Sultana didn’t reply, he sat up again. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘All right, now listen to me. Whatever it is that you were thinking is wrong. I’m not one of those who come up here, pay and leave. I have my fee too, like doctors. Whenever I’m sent for, I expect to be paid.’

Although this threw her off balance she couldn’t keep from laughing.

‘What do you do?’ she asked.

‘I do what you all do,’ he replied.

‘I. . I. . I don’t do anything.’

‘And neither do I.’

‘This makes no sense,’ she said in a huff. ‘Surely, you must do something.’

‘And so must you,’ he said with perfect equanimity.

‘I waste my time.’

‘So do I.’

‘Well then, let’s waste it together.’

‘Fine with me. But remember, I don’t pay for wasting time.’

‘Come to your senses. This isn’t a charity house.’

‘And I’m not a volunteer either.’

Sultana paused and then asked, ‘Who are these “volunteers”?’

‘ Ulloo ke patthe! ’ *

‘Well, I’m not a “volunteer”.’

‘But that guy, that Khuda Bakhsh who lives with you, he certainly is.’

‘Why?’

‘Because for days he’s been visiting a fakir, hoping he will turn his fortunes around when the man can’t even change his own fortunes.’ Shankar laughed.

‘You’re a Hindu,’ Sultana shot back, ‘that’s why you make fun of our holy men.’

Shankar smiled. ‘The question of Hindu or Muslim doesn’t arise in a place such as this. If the most accomplished pandits or maulvis were to come here, they would all behave like perfect gentlemen.’

‘God knows what nonsense you’re talking about. Tell me plainly, will you stay or leave?’

‘I’ll stay, but only on the condition I told you.’

Sultana got up and said, ‘In that case, you’d better be on your way.’

Shankar leisurely got up, thrust both of his hands into his pockets and said on his way out, ‘Now and then I pass by this bazaar. Call me whenever you need me. I’m a very useful man.’

Shankar departed and Sultana, forgetting all about the black clothes, kept thinking about him for a long time. His banter had appreciably lightened her heart. Had he visited her in Ambala, she would likely have viewed him in a different light. She might even have thrown him out. But here, in her current depressed state of mind, she liked his chatter.

When Khuda Bakhsh returned in the evening, she asked, ‘Where have you been all day?’

Looking bone-tired, Khuda Bakhsh said, ‘I had gone to the Old Fort. A holy man is staying there for a few days. I visit him every day in the hope that he might help turn our luck around.’

‘Has he said anything to you?’

‘No, so far he hasn’t. He hasn’t turned his attention to me, but I’m serving him with my whole heart and soul. It won’t be in vain. With God’s grace our good days will come. Of that I’m sure.’

Preoccupied with the thought of celebrating Muharram, Sultana said in a doleful voice, ‘You disappear for the whole day every day, while I stay here, cooped up in a cage, unable to go anywhere. Muharram is upon us. Has it occurred to you that I need black mourning clothes. We haven’t got a pie in the house. One by one, all the bangles were sold. Just tell me how we’re going to manage. How long are you going to run after fakirs? It seems to me that God has withdrawn His grace from us here. I say, go back to your old business — it will at least bring in something.’