Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

A whole month passed.

One evening, unexpectedly, I spotted Dhondo glued to the same lamp post. This gave me the unavoidable feeling that the electricity, which had been out for quite a while, had suddenly been restored and had brought the lamp post back to life, the telephone box too. The networks of lines above the post, running every which way, seemed to be whispering among themselves. He looked at me and smiled as I passed by.

We were sitting in the Irani teahouse now. I didn’t ask him anything. He ordered the usual coffee — tea blend for himself, a plain tea for me, and squirmed in his seat a while before settling down in a way that suggested he was about to tell me something very serious. But he only said, ‘So tell me, Manto Sahib, how’s it going?’

‘What’s there to tell, Dhondo, it just plods along.’

He smiled. ‘Absolutely right! It plods along. . and will plod along. But this silly “plodding along” is strange. And if you ask me, just about everything in this world is strange.’

‘You’re right, Dhondo.’

The tea arrived. As was his habit, he poured some in his saucer and said, ‘Manto Sahib, she told me everything. She said, “That seth friend of yours — he’s cuckoo in his head.”’

I laughed. ‘What made her say that?’

‘She said, “He took me to a restaurant. . gave me so much money. . but he had nothing of the usual seths in him.”’

I felt embarrassed at my callowness. ‘Couldn’t be helped. The whole thing was so weird.’

Dhondo laughed his head off. ‘Don’t I know it! Please forgive me for having lost my cool that day.’ His voice inadvertently took on a shade of informality. ‘But that story is over now.’

‘What story?’

‘That saali. . Siraj. . her story, who else’s?’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

Dhondo started twittering: ‘When she came back after meeting you that day, she told me, “I have forty rupees. Come, take me to Lahore.” I said, “Saali, what devil has gotten into your head all of a sudden?” She said, “No, Dhondo, let’s go. I beg you.” As you know, Manto Sahib, it’s not in me to turn her down, because I kind of like her. So I said, “Fine, let’s go.” We bought tickets and boarded the train. At Lahore, we stayed in a hotel. She asked me to get her a burqa so I did. She donned it and started roaming around the streets and alleys all over the city. After a few days, I told myself, “Well, Dhondo, that’s something! She was crazy and now you’ve gone bananas too. No sane person would have come with her to the end of the world.”

‘Then, one day, she suddenly asked the coachman to pull the tonga over. She pointed at a man and told me, “Dhondo, go get him. I’m going back to the hotel. You bring him there.” I lost my wits, Manto Sahib. I got down from the tonga and she took off. There I was, following that man. By the grace of God and your blessings, I kind of guessed what kind of man he was. I exchanged a few words with him and found out that he was the kind that are on the lookout for fun and action, no doubt about it. I told him, “I’ve got a choice piece from Bombay, what do you say?” He said, “Take me to her right away.” I said, “No, first show me the dough.” He pulled out a whole wad of notes. I said to myself, “Dhondo, my man, yes, you’re in business here too.” What puzzled me, though, was why Siraj had singled him out in all of Lahore. “Well,” I said to myself, “here goes.” I hired a tonga, took him straight to the hotel and informed Siraj. She said, “Wait for a while.” We waited for some time, and then I took the man inside. By the way, he was quite good-looking. The minute he saw Siraj he reared up like a horse, but she grabbed him.’

Dhondo paused. He finished his coffee — tea mix, stone cold by now, in one big gulp and lit a biri.

‘So Siraj grabbed him,’ I prompted.

‘Yes, she did, that saala,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘She told him, “Let me see where you’ll escape to now. You made me leave my home — what for? I loved you. You said that you loved me too. But when I eloped with you, leaving behind my home and my parents, leaving Amritsar, we stayed here in this very hotel and you disappeared during the night. You left me all alone. Why did you bring me here? Why did you make me run away? I was ready for everything, but you didn’t care a fig about me. You took off. Come on, it’s me who’s calling you now. My love is still fresh. Come on. .” Manto Sahib, she draped herself around him. That saala started shedding big fat tears. He begged for her forgiveness, saying, “I made a terrible mistake. I panicked. I’ll never leave you again.” He kept swearing to God that he would never do such a thing again. God knows what else he kept babbling! Siraj gave me a sign and I left the room. Next morning as I was sleeping on a cot outside, Siraj woke me up. “Well, Dhondo, let’s go,” she said, “Go where?” I asked. “Back to Bombay,” she answered. “And where is that saala?” I asked. She said, “He’s sleeping. I’ve put my burqa on top of him.”’

Just as Dhondo was ordering another cup of coffee mixed with tea, Siraj came in, her fair, oval face fresh and blossoming, her great big eyes looking like two lowered railway signals.

Nazir went to buy a bottle of whisky from the black market. There was a cigarette stall near the entrance to the pier, just before the main post office, where he always got Scotch at a reasonable price. He paid thirty-five rupees and took a bottle wrapped in paper. Must have been around eleven in the morning. Although he usually started drinking after sundown, the weather was so gorgeous that he’d thought he might get started now and keep going well into the evening.

Bottle in hand, he set out for home in an exuberant mood. He decided to catch a taxi at the Bori Bunder stand, leisurely sip a bit of the Scotch during the ride and arrive home pleasantly inebriated. If his wife made a fuss, he would simply say, ‘Just look at the weather — isn’t it heavenly?’ and then recite a few lines of insipid poetry, ‘The clouds won’t let the angels in; / all sins will be counted as good deeds today.’ Of course, she would nag him for a while, but eventually she would calm down and, perhaps, at his request, get busy making parathas filled with ground meat.

He had only taken a few steps away from the stall when a man greeted him. Given his weak memory, Nazir failed to recognize him but he pretended otherwise and said courteously, ‘Where have you been all these days? Haven’t seen you in ages.’

The man smiled. ‘Sir, I’m always right here; it’s you who have made yourself scarce.’

Nazir still couldn’t place him. ‘Well, I’m here now.’

‘In that case, come with me.’

Nazir was in a very buoyant mood. He said, ‘All right, let’s go.’

Spotting the bottle tucked under Nazir’s arm, the man said with a knowing smile, ‘You seem to have everything else with you.’

‘He’s got to be a pimp,’ Nazir suddenly realized. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Karim. Don’t tell me you forgot.’

It all came back to Nazir. Before he got married, a certain Karim used to procure nice girls for him. He was an exceptionally honest pimp. Nazir looked at him closely and saw a familiar face. The events of a not-so-long-ago past floated in his memory. ‘Sorry, yaar, I didn’t recognize you,’ he apologized. ‘It’s been nearly six years since we last met, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I think so.’

‘You used to do your business at the corner of Grant Road.’

‘I’ve moved,’ Karim said with burgeoning pride as he lit his biri, ‘thanks to your good wishes. Now I work from a hotel.’

‘Excellent!’ Nazir congratulated him. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’