Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Now Munni wasn’t there with Sharda. The poor woman was incomplete. And so were her breasts. They no longer had much milk in them — that white elixir of life. Now she didn’t protest if he pressed her tightly to his chest. She wasn’t the old Sharda any more, though, in fact, she was every bit the same, perhaps even more than the Sharda he had known. With separation, her sensual ardour had grown keener, and now she also loved him with her soul. Still Nazir felt she had lost her earlier allure or whatever it was.

Such was his conclusion after a fortnight of being close to her continually. Well, fifteen days of absence from the office was long enough. He resumed his work, leaving for the office in the morning and returning home in the evening. Sharda took to serving him like a devoted wife. She bought some wool and knitted him a sweater, made sure he had enough soda for his drinks when he came home, and kept plenty of ice in the thermos. In the morning she laid out his shaving kit on the table and warmed up some water. After he was finished, she cleaned away the shaving paraphernalia and busied herself with housework. She swept the floors herself.

Nazir couldn’t take this any more.

Until then they had been sleeping together. Now he started sleeping alone on the pretext that he needed to do some thinking. Sharda moved to the other bed. But this only added to his turmoil. While she slept soundly, he lay awake wondering what this was all about. This Sharda — why was she here? Yes, he had spent a few quite marvellous days with her at Karim’s hotel, but why had she stuck to him? What was all this leading to? Where would it end? Love and all that — pure nonsense! It was just a minor thing, and even that was no longer there. It was time she returned to Jaipur.

Not long afterwards Nazir was seized by the thought that he was committing a sin. Of course, he had sinned at Karim’s hotel, and umpteen times even before his marriage. But at that time he wasn’t conscious of sinning. Now, increasingly, he felt as though he was cheating on his wife, his simple-minded wife whom he had lied to so often about Sharda’s letters. Sharda seemed even less attractive to him now. He started treating her coldly, but she was never ungracious to him, never complained to him about his coldness, thinking that, after all, artists tended to be quite moody.

A whole month had slipped away since she had arrived in Bombay to be with him. When Nazir counted the days he felt troubled. ‘Can’t believe this woman has been living here for a whole month. What a rotten egg I am. . writing a letter to my wife every day like a faithful husband! As if all I care about in the world is her. . as if life is hell without her. Could there be a greater impostor than me? Deceiving her there and Sharda here. Why can’t I tell this woman plainly, “Look, woman, I no longer feel the same way about you?” But do I really no longer feel the same way, or is she no longer the same Sharda?’

He thought and thought but the answer eluded him. His mind was in a shambles. He had even started to reflect on morality. Guilt over betraying his wife haunted him night and day, and as the days rolled past it became more pronounced. He began to hate himself. ‘I’m scum. Why has this woman become my second wife? When did I ever need her? Why has she stuck to me so? Why did I allow her to come here?’ Because she’d written to him — that’s why. ‘But it was sent when I could no longer stop her. She was already on her way.’

Then his mind would strike out on a different line of thinking: Whatever Sharda does. . it’s all make-believe, a sham. She wants this charade to drive a wedge between my wife and me. Reasoning like this alienated him further from Sharda, and his attitude worsened. But this only made Sharda gentler and even more submissive. She went to great lengths to ensure his comfort and ease, and that behaviour irritated him even more. Now he began to hate her.

By chance one day he had no money on him. It had slipped his mind to go and withdraw some from the bank. He arrived at the office quite late because he wasn’t feeling well. When he was leaving, Sharda had said something to him and he had yelled back: ‘Shut your trap! I’m all right. I forgot to get cash from the bank and I haven’t got any money for cigarettes.’

He got a tin of Gold Flakes from the cigarette stall near his office. Although he hated this brand, it was the only one he was able to get on credit. He smoked two or three willy-nilly. That evening at home he saw a tin of his favourite brand on the tea table. At first he thought it was just an empty tin, or that maybe it had just a couple of cigarettes. When he opened it, it was full. He asked Sharda, ‘Where did this come from?’

She smiled. ‘It was sitting in the cupboard.’

He must have opened it at some point, left it there and then forgot about it, he decided. The next day another full tin was sitting on the tea table. When he asked Sharda, she repeated, again with a smile, the same answer as the day before.

‘Nonsense,’ he snapped angrily. ‘I don’t appreciate such antics. I can buy my own, thank you. I’m not a beggar who needs you to buy his cigarettes every day.’

‘I took the liberty because I know you sometimes forget,’ she said tenderly, lovingly.

For no reason at all Nazir blurted out furiously, ‘Well, of course, I’m absent-minded! But I don’t like such boldness.’

‘I apologize.’ Sharda’s tone grew infinitely softer.

Sharda was hardly to blame, Nazir thought for a moment; perhaps he should step forward and kiss her for caring. But the next instant the thought that he was betraying his wife overpowered him, so he said to her with all the hate he could pack into his voice, ‘Hold your tongue. I think I’ll send you back first thing tomorrow. In the morning I’ll give you whatever money you need.’

Sharda remained quiet. She slept with him that night, caressing and hugging him with all the tenderness of her being the whole time. It irritated him, but he didn’t let her know.

In the morning he found a variety of tasty dishes for breakfast. Still he didn’t say a word to Sharda. Immediately after breakfast he left for the bank, saying only, ‘I’m going to the bank. I’ll be right back.’

The branch where Nazir had his account was close by. He withdrew two hundred rupees and hurried home. He planned to give it all to Sharda, buy her train ticket and pack her off. When he arrived the servant informed him that she had already left.

‘Where did she go?’ Nazir inquired.

‘She didn’t say. She left with her trunk and bedding.’

Nazir entered his room and found a tin of his favourite cigarettes on the tea table. It was full.

I believe I met Babu Gopinath in 1940. Back then I was the editor of a Bombay weekly. One day when I was busy writing the lead, Abdur Rahim ‘Sando’ stormed into my office, followed by a puny little fellow. Sando greeted me in his typically shrill manner and then introduced his companion, ‘Manto Sahib, please meet Babu Gopinath.’

I got up and shook hands with him. As usual, Sando rattled off a list of overblown compliments: ‘Babu Gopinath, you’re shaking hands with India’s number one writer. Here he writes, there dharan takhta . A master of establishing kuntinutely among people and things. So Manto Sahib, what was that joke you unleashed the other day? “Miss Khurshid bought a car; verily, God is a great carmaker.” Now, Babu Gopinath, wouldn’t you say this is right aynti ki paynti po ?’

Abdur Rahim Sando had quite the way of talking. Dharan takhta, kuntinutely and aynti ki paynti po were phrases he’d coined himself and would slip into conversation quite naturally.